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vueefheart* 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


r**«_pM*  r-t-hj- M  r^r1-^  -j^  jj,  „«,• 

*    >     ••    .j.    _r     j,     •-•        ,...      ..        t    k    .4 .    .4  ,x     _     A     . 

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FUBLK  ftGD  •  fiC 

ET»  GfiDRGe  CT.  JfiCDRS  -&^-  CD. 


COPYRIGHT,  A.  D.  1905,  BY 
GEORGE  W.  JACOBS  &  CO. 
PUBLISHED  OCTOBER,  1905. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

X*  Ho^v  jMLwtstcr  j  -  r. s  1 1~.    _  3.  .  .  .  t  * c   i rr~3. trcrc.  ..*................     n 

EL  It  Was  a  Lover  and  Hi*  Lav 25 

HL  The  Coarse  off  True  Love 37 

IV.  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 51 

V.  O  Cursed  Spite. 9 

VL  Poor  Players 73 

VIL  Breaking  tbe  Locks  of  Prison  Gates. ..  ....     89 

VlJLL  A  Willow  Grows  Aslant  die  Brook 101 

IX.  A  Young  Maid's  Whs .117 

X.  A  Pretty  Boy. 131 

XL  A  Dark  Lady. MS 

XIL  Love  Given  Unsought 159 

XIIL  Romero  and  Juliet 173 

XIV.  Look  Upon  This  Pkluie  and  on  This 191 

XV.  By  the  Church 307 

XVL  Take,  oh,  Take  Those  Lips  Away 217 

XVIL  His  Wedded  Lady *sg 

iVlll.  A  Fan-  Vestal  Throned  by  the  West. 945 

XIX.  After  Life's  Fitful  Fever. . .  . .  sfo 


-79 


It  is  my  lady!    Oh,  it  is  my  love! Facing  page    32 

A  health  to— Shakespeare's  freedom  and — Shakespeare's  Sweetheart!    84 

A  widow  grows  aslant  the  brook 106 

Nay— if  thotfrt  bent  on  fighting,  then  most  e'en  fight  me 332 


asleep  beside  the  Avon, 
long  and  lonely  years! 


Five    years    have    now 
passed  since  he  left  us — and 
the  world  that  will  forever 
love  and  mourn  him.     Five 
times  have  the  seasons  run  their  course  since  he  fell 

never  to  waken  more.  Five 
And  yet — and  yet — to  me  it 
seems  that  he  is  never  far  away.  Lonely  in  body  have 
I  been,  but  never  hath  my  soul  dwelt  solitary.  My 
grief  for  him  is  as  no  other's;  yet  my  joy  is  such  as 
none  can  ever  take  from  me.  I  was  his,  he  was  mine. 
The  world's  poet  was  my  beloved,  too.  It  makes  me 
almost  catch  my  breath  to  say  it,  and  I  often  marvel 
why  this  crown  of  my  life  was  given  me.  'Tis  a  mys- 
tery sweet  as  strange,  a  very  sacrament  of  wonder  and 
of  love.  And  a  mystery,  whether  human  or  divine,  we 
may  adore,  but  never  comprehend. 

For  I  was  Shakespeare's  sweetheart — verily  and 
alone  his  sweetheart,  even  after  I  became  his  wedded 
wife.  From  that  first  wondrous  day  when  we  read  in 

13 


each  other's  eyes  the  new-born  love  which  was  to  live 
forever,  to  the  time  when  he  left  me  for  a  while,  five 
years  ago;  nay,  even  until  now,  I  am  Shakespeare's 
sweetheart.  And  so  it  is  my  right,  as  it  is  also  my 
pride  and  delight,  to  tell  the  story  of  our  love  for  the 
great  multitudes  who  held  Will  dear,  for  the  shadowy, 
unborn  multitudes  who  shall  pay  homage  to  his  mem- 
ory in  years  to  come.  Truly,  the  story  is  sacred  to  me ; 
but  he  is  not  mine  alone;  he  is  also  the  world's,  the 
world  that  loved  him,  that  he  loved. 

After  all,  however,  Master  Ben  Jonson  is  respon- 
sible for  my  trying  to  tell  this  tale  of  mine.  For  yes- 
terday, with  a  great  noise  and  bustle,  as  is  his  wont, 
he  rode  up  to  the  gates  of  New  Place  and  called  loudly 
for  me.  I  was  sitting  in  the  garden,  sewing,  and  the 
instant  after  he  had  bellowed  forth  my  name  he  be- 
held me. 

"Good-morrow,  Mistress  Shakespeare,"  he  cried, 
waving  his  hand  to  me.  "Thou  art  the  very  dame  I 
wish  to  see.  Art  weary,  art  busy?  If  so,  I  will  leave 
my  errand  until  later.  This  sorry  nag  of  mine  must 
be  stabled  at  the  inn;"  and  he  gave  a  vicious  dig  at 
the  poor  beast  he  bestrode.  Master  Jonson  is  not  at 
his  best  on  horseback. 


"I  am  neither  weary  nor  busy,  Master  Jonson,"  I 
replied,  walking  down  to  the  gateway,  that  we  might 
converse  more  freely.  "Prythee,  come  in  at  once ;  Will's 
friends  are  always  welcome  at  New  Place." 

"Marry,  it  is  about  Will  that  I  would  speak  with 
thee,"  he  said,  bluntly,  looking  at  me  with  shrewd, 
kindly  eyes.  "Moreover,  I  am  mistaken  sorely  if  my 
errand  shall  not  please  thee.  Natheless,  on  my  way 
hither  I  ordered  dinner  at  the  inn,  and  I  must  e'en  go 
there  first.  Then  I  will  return,  an  it  like  thee.  I  have 
many  things  to  talk  about." 

I  expressed  my  pleasure  at  the  prospect,  and  he 
looked  delighted.  "I  will  return,  then,  as  speedily  as 
may  be,"  he  said,  beginning  a  somewhat  unsuccessful 
attempt  to  turn  his  horse  about.  "Au  revoir,  Mistress 

Shakespeare,  and  may  all  the  gods  of  Olympus 

The  devil  take  thee,  thou  evil-faced,  sorry  steed!  Ac- 
cursed be  the  day  I  hired  thee!  Wilt  thou  obey  my 
rein?  Ah,  at  last.  Go  on,  thou  imp  of  Satan!"  With 
which  cheerful  adjuration  Master  Jonson  ambled  away, 
too  absorbed  in  guiding  his  steed  to  take  further  notice 
of  me  then. 

I  laughed  a  little  as  I  watched  his  ungraceful 
progress;  but  as  I  turned  from  the  gate  I  sighed. 

15 


Master  Jonson  had  been  Will's  true  friend.  They  had 
loved  each  other  right  well.  I  remembered,  on  the  day 
of  Will's  funeral,  how  swollen  and  marred  with  tears 
had  been  that  kindly,  whimsical  face  into  which  I  had 
just  been  looking.  What  could  it  be  in  connection  with 
Will  that  he  had  to  say  to  me?  No  matter  what,  it 
would  be  something  arising  from  the  love  these  two 
had  borne  toward  each  other.  So  thinking,  I  once 
more  seated  myself  in  the  garden,  took  up  my  sewing 
and  awaited  Master  Jonson's  return. 

An  hour  later  I  saw  him  again  approaching.  He 
was  on  foot  this  time,  and  looked  much  more  com- 
fortable than  before.  I  smiled  and  nodded  to  him,  and 
rose  to  give  him  welcome.  An  instant  after,  we  were 
seated  at  the  table  in  our  garden  where,  in  years  gone 
by,  Will  had  often  entertained  his  London  friends.  My 
little  maid  brought  us  cakes  and  wine,  then  left  us. 
Master  Jonson  smacked  his  lips  at  sight  of  them. 

"Mistress  Shakespeare,  thou  good  angel !"  he  cried. 
"Execrable  was  my  inn  dinner,  but  now  thou  wilt  make 
amends.  Well  do  I  remember,"  and  a  shadow  fell  over 
his  face,  "well  do  I  remember  thy  hospitality  of  yore." 

I  replied,  simply,  that  I  was  glad  he  was  pleased, 
and  bade  him  do  justice  to  the  fare,  since  he  approved 

16 


it.  Nothing  loth,  he  attacked  the  wine,  and  had  drunk 
several  glasses  before  he  spoke  again. 

"Methinks  Will  was  right,"  he  said  at  length,  sud- 
denly; "he  told  me  once  that  there  was  one  woman 
who  could  guard  her  tongue,"  and  he  looked  at  me 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  I  smiled  at  his  words, 
although  a  little  sadly. 

"Will  said  many  things  that  I  did  not  deserve,"  I 
replied;  "nor  do  I  think  I  have  justified  in  my  life  the 
opinion  thou  hast  quoted.  I  betrayed  my  one  great 
secret  in  a  moment  of  terror  and  distress.  Natheless, 
'tis  sooth  that  I  have  never  been  prone  to  gossip  after 
the  fashion  of  my  sex." 

"Art  anxious  to  know  what  hath  brought  me  down 
thus  suddenly  from  London?"  he  said,  abruptly,  pour- 
ing out  more  wine. 

I  answered,  truthfully,  that  I  was;  but  added  that 
I  would  await  his  convenience  to  tell  me  his  errand. 

"And,  therefore,  one  woman  can  restrain  her  nat- 
ural curiosity,"  he  replied,  promptly  and  teasingly. 
"Will  was  right  Well,  virtue  shall  be  rewarded,  and 
I  will  tell  thee  at  once.  Thou  know*st  Will's  plays- 
Hamlet,  Romeus  and  Juliet,  Much  Ado  and  the  rest?" 

I  nodded,  silently,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face. 


"And  soothly,"  he  continued,  gazing  at  me  thought- 
fully, "I  think  I  know  now  why  the  women  of  Will's 
plays  are — what  they  are.  The  rest  of  us  cannot  pic- 
ture women.  We  can  show  drabs  or  shrews,  but  Portias 
and  Imogens  are  not  for  us.  I  know  why  now;  there 
is  but  one  Anne  Hathaway." 

I  blushed  at  that,  for  it  was  base  flattery.  I  am 
not  a  young  woman  now,  and  what  girlish  charm  I 
may  have  had  is  gone. 

"You  cozen  me,  Master  Jonson,"  I  observed  with 
some  coldness ;  "you  cozen  me,  indeed ;  and  it  is  ill  done 
of  one  whom  Will  deemed  his  dear  friend.  Surely  you 
seek  some  favor  of  me  that  you  give  me  these  soft 
words." 

"Nay,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "nay,  and  yet  ay.  It  is 
true  I  seek  a  favor ;  but,  on  my  soul,  I  seek  not  to  cozen 
thee.  Let  me  tell  thee  without  more  words  than  need 
be.  These  plays  of  Will's — never  had  our  London 
players  such  to  perform,  nor  ever  will  again — are  at 
last  to  be  published.  Art  not  pleasured  by  these  tid- 
ings?" 

I  assented,  but  a  little  doubtfully.  "I  wonder " 

I  began. 

"I   know   what   thou   wouldst   say,"   interrupted 

18 


Master  Jonson,  quickly;  "thou  dost  wonder  whether 
Will's  honor  would  permit  this  to  be  done,  were  he 
alive.  Ay,  Mistress  Shakespeare,  for  I  would  not  coun- 
tenance the  proceeding  else.  I  love  his  honor  as  my 
own,  nor  would  I  see  it  smirched.  The  public  seeks 
now  to  have  these  plays  in  print,  and  in  a  form  put 
forth  in  authorized  fashion.  While  Will  lived  it  was 
different.  He  sought  not  a  dishonorable  double  profit, 
after  the  fashion  of  some.  Having  sold  his  play  to 
the  theatre,  he  took  it  not  also  to  the  printer's.  But 
now  conditions  are  changed.  Were  Will  himself  alive, 
he  would  do  what  John  Hemminge  and  John  Condell 
seek  to  do  for  him — to  prepare  the  plays  for  publica- 
tion. Their  work  is  one  of  love,  but,  of  necessity,  im- 
perfect. Would  that  he  were  here  to  do  it  for  himself! 
God  knows  I  wish  it  sore!" 

He  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands  and  was  silent 
for  an  instant.  As  for  me,  sudden  tears  blinded  me, 
and  I  sat  gazing  at  the  garden  with  eyes  that  beheld, 
as  in  a  vision,  the  beloved  form  I  could  no  longer  see 
with  mortal  sight.  For  a  moment  we  sat  thus.  Then, 
with  an  impetuous  movement,  Master  Jonson  raised 
his  head,  and,  rapidly  pouring  out  two  glasses  of  wine, 
handed  one  to  me. 

19 


"To  his  memory !"  he  cried,  holding  the  other  aloft. 
"To  his  memory,  and  to  his  soul's  rest!  Will  Shake- 
speare, Comrade  and  Poet!" 

We  drank  the  little  toast  together. 

"It  is  glad  news,  indeed,  then,"  I  said.  "Since  the 
act  smircheth  not  his  honor,  I  shall  be  right  glad  to 
see  the  plays  in  lawful  printed  form.  Thou  wilt  super- 
intend the  task,  Master  Jonson?" 

"Ay,"  he  answered,  flushing  with  delight  at  my 
pleased  tone.  There  was  always  much  of  the  child 
about  him,  despite  his  learning.  "I  am  glad  that  thou 
approvest.  Were't  otherwise,  the  enterprise  would  end 
forthwith.  Ay,  I  will  see  that  as  few  errors  are  made 
as  may  be.  Master  Hemminge  and  Master  Condell  will 

perform  their  task  faithfully,  I  am  sure;  and  I " 

he  began  to  feel  in  his  pockets;  "I  have  here  a  copy 
of  some  verses  I  have  written  which  are  to  be  printed 
as  preface  to  the  volume.  I  brought  them  down  to 
Stratford,  thinking  they  would  be  of  interest  to  thee." 
He  had  found  the  lines  by  this  time  in  the  chaos  of  his 
pockets.  He  pushed  back  the  wine-glasses  and  cleared 
his  throat  portentously,  then  paused  and  looked  at  me 
anxiously. 

"Perchance,"  he  began,  "perchance  thou  dost  not 


ESlfhake  spcare$l  — .  iSliwc  et-hea  rR 

care  to  hear  them.  They  are  faulty  lines  enough,  un- 
worthy of  the  subject,  but,  at  least,  they  are  written 
by  one  who  loved  Will  right  dearly." 

"And  no  other  apology  is  needed,  if  need  there  be 
for  any,"  I  said,  gently.  "Proceed,  Master  Jonson.  I 
know  already  that  the  verses  will  pleasure  me  greatly." 

He  cleared  his  throat  again,  and  began  to  read  in 
a  somewhat  pompous  tone,  although  with  real  feeling. 
I  sat  listening,  my  head  resting  on  my  hand.  Mingled 
with  Master  Jonson's  voice  were  the  old,  familiar  ones 
of  the  wind  and  of  the  river;  the  soft  sighing  of  the 
breeze;  the  low  murmur  of  the  Avon,  which  always 
whisper  to  me  one  name, — Will,  Will,  Will. 

"To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  Book  and  Fame: 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  Man  nor  Muse  can  praise  too  much." 

Thus  the  stately  beginning,  followed  by  lines  equal- 
ing them  in  felicity  and  beauty.  How  perfect  the 
tribute  that  came  an  instant  later: 

"Soul  of  the  Age!     The  applause!  delight!  the  wonder 

of  our  Stage! 
My  Shakespeare,  rise ;  I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 


Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 
Thou  art  a  Monument,  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  Book  doth  live. 


The  verses  continued,  a  perfect  and  gracious  tribute 
from  one  poet  to  another.  All  know  them  well,  yet 
I  will  put  down  the  magnificent  closing  lines,  because 
I  love  them: 

"Sweet  Swan  of  Avon !  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  Hemisphere 
Advanc'd,  and  made  a  Constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage, 
Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  Stage ; 
Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourn'd  like  night, 
And  despaires  day,  but  for  thy  volumes  light." 


Master  Jonson  looked  at  me  as  he  finished  without 
a  trace  of  his  usual  noise  and  bluster. 

"Art  pleased  with  the  verses,  Mistress  Shake- 
speare?" he  asked,  simply. 


"Tli  -I          ^e    mat ••!»       j^  r j !_. ...1  **    T    «r* 

swered.    "I  thank  thee,  Master  Jonson.   They  are  noble 

lines." 

"Then,"  he  said,  "since  thou  art  pleased  with  them, 
and  with  the  idea  of  the  volume  they  are  to  prefix,  I 
am  emboldened  to  tett  thee  my  chief  errand  to  Strat- 
ford." 

I  wfll  not  write  here  what  he  said  next.  At  first 
I  was  so  aghast  at  his  proposal  that  I  refused,  in  a 
panic  at  the  idea.  But,  at  last,  after  he  had  talked  long 
to  me,  and  made  me  understand  his  reason  for  the  re- 
quest, I  wavered,  then  pondered,  and  finally  gave  my 
consent.  When  he  left  me,  I  had  begun  to  look  forward 
to  the  task. 

xiis  1  <oiioon  c^otivrT^offs  ^FSI.O  snfi^*^  oi  him  <^^>  DtuL'vcr 
and  as  poet,"  said  Master  Jonson.  "Thou  alone,  Mis- 
tress Shakespeare,  knew  him  as  lover  and  as  man. 
One  other,  *f*dkrij  **  He  paused  abruptly,  aiVi 
hastily  changed  his  sentence.  "This  being  so,  I  pry- 
thee  tell  his  love  story  for  the  world  that  loves  him." 

I  knew  weU  what  his  unfinished  sentence  iiicani, 
and  who  that  "one"  was  to  whom  he  referred.  He  did 
not  know  that  I  knew,  but  he  wfll  when  he  reads  aU 
I  shall  write.  That  Dark  Lady  of  whom  he  spoke 


caused  me  much  anguish  once;  but  now,  when  my  life 
has  reached  its  evening,  I  can  remember  even  her  with 
pity  and  forgiveness. 

So,  obeying  Master  Jonson,  I  set  about  my  unac- 
customed task.  I  am  not  a  learned  woman;  yet  I  feel 
no  fear,  rather  a  strange  confidence.  Is  it  that  the 
theme  inspires  me;  or  does  Will's  spirit  enfold  and 
strengthen  me  as  I  begin  this  labor  of  love?  Truly,  I 
do  not  know;  but  verily  my  happiness  as  I  do  so  is 
strangely  deep  and  sweet.  Here  follows,  then,  my  love 
story  and  his.  'Tis  for  the  world,  and  the  world  may 
one  day  forget  him,  although  I  think  not  so.  Nay, 
meseems  that  the  glory  he  brought  to  Stratford  and 
to  England  is  not  like  to  fade  away;  but  that  Stratford 
and  England  will  honor  forevermore  Will  Shakespeare, 
poet  and  player.  Mayhap,  however,  this  is  but  a  fond 
woman's  fancy. 


May  Day  dawned 
fair  and  smiling  on 
Stratford  that  year;  and 
lads  and  lasses,  as  was 
their  wont,  rose  early  to 
greet  it  fittingly.  As  I 
went  about  my  usual  household  tasks  throughout  the 
morn,  I  caught  glimpses  now  and  again  of  blithe  youths 
and  maidens,  decked  with  flowers,  on  their  way  to  the 
Maypole.  I  heard  snatches  of  gay  song  and  peals  of 
merry  laughter,  but  always  from  afar.  No  lad  came 
hastening  to  Shottery  to  beg  Anne  Hathaway  as  a 
partner  for  the  Maying.  No  maiden  comrade  came  to 
lure  her  forth  to  share  the  merrymaking. 

I  can  scarce  say  I  was  grieved  that  this  was  so. 
Such  a  state  of  affairs  had  come  to  be  so  much  a  matter 
of  custom  to  me  that,  as  a  rule,  I  thought  not  of  it  at 
all.  But  that  May  morning  something  in  the  spring 
softness  of  the  air,  the  sweet  freshness  of  the  earth, 
filled  me  with  that  sense  of  pulsating  youth  and  love 
which  comes  even  to  the  sad  and  solitary  at  this  season. 

27 


Conscious  of  a  strange  unrest,  I  found  myself,  as  the 
day  wore  on,  by  the  window.  There  I  stood,  gazing 
across  the  fields,  with  their  wealth  of  spring  beauty, 
toward  the  place  where  Stratford  lay  fair  and  smiling 
beyond. 

There  was  a  strange  wistfulness  in  my  heart  as  I 
leaned  upon  the  sill,  almost  hidden  by  the  clustering 
vines.  Standing  there,  I  realized,  as  often  before,  with 
a  quiet,  sorrowful  wonder,  how  little  of  the  beauty  and 
the  sweetness  of  life  had  come  to  me.  Twenty-five  May 
Days  had  I  seen  as  child  and  woman,  and  from  the  first 
to  the  present  one  I  had  spent  them  all  alike,  in  solitude 
and  joylessness.  No  other  lass  in  Stratford  and  Shot- 
tery,  perhaps  no  other  in  England,  I  dared  swear  could 
say  the  same. 

But  I  knew  why ;  ah,  I  knew  why !  I  shivered  as  if 
a  sudden  chill  had  come  to  me  from  the  balmy  May  air, 
and  I  passed  my  hand  drearily  across  my  eyes.  In  the 
room  below  I  heard  my  grandam  stirring  about  with 
a  cheerful  clatter.  She  and  I  alone  lived  in  the  cottage 
now;  but  it  had  not  been  always  so.  Six  months  ago 
had  ceased  to  beat  the  poor  restless  heart  of  one  who, 
while  she  lived,  had  made  our  home,  tranquil  now,  an 
evil  den  of  torture.  Mad  was  she,  that  poor  mother  of 

28 


mine,  and  had  been  since  my  earliest  remembrance. 
Never  had  I  seen,  either,  my  grandam's  hair  aught  but 
silvered,  although  when  I  was  a  little  child  she  scarce 
could  have  been  a  very  old  woman.  I  knew  now  what 
had  blanched  those  locks  and  made  her  aged  before 
her  time;  I  realized  why  I  had  been  transformed  into 
a  grave  woman  while  yet  a  girl  in  years.  It  was  the 
care  of  my  poor  mad  mother,  sometimes  gentle  and 
harmless,  but  again  brooding,  violent,  seeking  with 
devilish  cunning  to  murder  us  while  we  slept.  Alack! 
I  knew  the  very  book  of  madness  in  its  extremest  tor- 
tures. I  conned  it,  where  other  children  learn  happy 
and  blessed  things,  at  my  mother's  knee. 

What  made  her  mad  I  never  knew  until  she  had 
become  sane  forever.  On  the  night  before  her  burial 
I  suddenly  and  softly  asked  my  grandam  the  question. 

"Grandam,"  I  said,  "why  was  it?  What  drove  her 
wits  astray?" 

I  was  looking  down  at  the  dead  face,  and  it  was 
as  if  I  beheld  my  own  in  a  glass.  The  clustering  golden 
hair  was  mine,  the  oval  outline  of  cheek  and  chin,  the 
clear  pallor  of  the  complexion.  The  eyes  were  closed 
forever,  but  in  life  they  had  been  as  dark  and  sombre 
as  mine  own. 

29 


My  grandam  saw,  I  think,  the  resemblance  that  I 
noted,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  her,  whether  at  the 
thought  or  at  my  question  I  knew  not.  She  looked  at 
me  with  eyes  at  once  fierce  and  pitiful. 

"What  makes  thee  ask  that?"  she  whispered, 
sharply,  and  I  noticed  that  her  worn  and  knotted  hands 
were  clenched.  "What  makes  thee  ask  that?" 

Sooth,  I  myself  knew  not  what  sudden  impulse 
had  prompted  the  inquiry.  I  made  no  answer,  but 
stood  as  before,  gazing  into  the  still  dead  face,  full 
of  that  strange,  tranquil  beauty  which  death  always 
brings. 

Suddenly  I  was  aware  that  my  grandam  was  gaz- 
ing at  that  calm  countenance,  too,  but  not  quietly,  as 
I  was  doing.  Another  moment  and  a  great  sob  broke 
the  stillness.  My  grandam  fell  on  her  knees  beside  my 
mother's  body,  and  tenderly,  tremulously,  lifted  the 
stark  left  hand  in  hers.  Then  I  saw  that  her  shaking 
finger  strove  to  point  out  to  me  something  on  the  still 
dead  hand  she  held.  What  was  it?  For  an  instant  I 
gazed,  uncomprehending.  Then  suddenly  I  understood. 
I  looked  my  sobbing  grandam  in  the  eyes  searchingly, 
gravely. 

The  knowledge  that  she  strove  to  convey  came  to 
30 


me  with  a  strange  sense  of  familiarity.  The  dead  hand 
had  no  wedding-ring  upon  it,  nor  had  I  recollection  of 
a  father.  I  was  a  nameless  child. 

And  that  was  why,  upon  this  May  Day,  when  the 
spring-time  called  youth  and  love  to  make  merry,  that 
I  stood  alone  and  sorrowful,  while  the  joy  of  the  world 
passed  by  me,  as  hi  a  vision  far  away. 

Suddenly  another  sound  broke  melodiously  across 
the  low  crooning  of  my  grandam  in  the  room  below, 
across  the  twitter  of  the  birds  without;  a  sound  which 
somehow  seemed  akin  to  the  May  Day  itself  in  daunt- 
less youth  and  frank  delight.  It  was  a  young  man's 
voice  that  I  heard,  mellow  and  joyous: 

"Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear; 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear." 

At  the  same  instant  the  speaker  came  in  sight.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  me  in  the  window,  framed  about 
with  blossoming  vines.  I  knew  him  at  once.  It  was 
young  Will  Shakespeare. 

For  a  breathless  instant  we  gazed  at  each  other. 
I  had  often  passed  him  in  Stratford  streets.  He  knew 
my  name  and  my  story.  We  had  probably  seen  each 

31 


other  before  a  hundred  times;  but  never  thus,  face  to 
face,  on  a  May  morning  that  made  all  the  world  young ; 
never  amid  sights  and  sounds  that  spoke  of  love  alone. 
In  that  moment,  somehow,  some  way,  all  was  told. 
With  a  strange  rush  of  joy  I  caught  my  breath  half- 
sobbingly.  I  knew  that  I  was  no  longer  solitary  and 
unloved. 

As  for  him,  he  bared  his  head  and  bent  it  low,  just 
breathing  words  which  I  afterwards  found  were  those 
of  his  Italian  Romeus  when  he  looked  on  the  love  of 

his  life: 

"It  is  my  lady!    Oh,  it  is  my  love !" 

Then,  cap  still  in  hand,  he  raised  his  face  towards 
mine,  and  spoke  in  more  ordinary  fashion. 

"Mistress  Anne,  greeting.  Wilt  come  a-Maying 
with  me?" 

I  was  flushed  and  trembling,  and  I  could  not  an- 
swer at  once.  I  realized  that  he  had  used  the  com- 
monplace words  to  still  my  agitation;  but  I  could  not 
immediately  avail  myself  of  his  consideration. 

"Nay,"  I  faltered  at  length;  "I— I "  There  I 

paused,  and  my  face  grew  suddenly  crimson.  I  remem- 
bered who  and  what  I  was.  What  right  had  I  to  such 

32 


joy?  Moreover,  he  was  a  mere,  happy  lad;  I  a  sad, 
mature  woman.  The  hard  thought  thrust  itself  upon 
me  unbidden.  There  were  numberless  fair  Stratford 
maidens,  among  whom  he  could  find  a  more  fitting 
May  Day  sweetheart. 

"Thou  dost  forget,"  I  said  at  length,  still  falter- 
ing, although  I  strove  to  speak  coldly;  "thou  dost  for- 
get. It  is "  I  hesitated,  then  went  on  hurriedly; 

"it  is  necessity  that  isolates  me.  It  is  thy  choice  that 
thou  art  solitary." 

He  must  have  known  my  meaning  at  once,  for  my 
story  was  familiar  in  Stratford;  but  he  replied  in- 
stantly. 

"Sweet  Mistress  Anne,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was, 
if  possible,  a  shade  more  courteous  than  before,  "be- 
lieve me,  thou  art  the  only  lass  that  I  desire  to  go 
a-Maying  with  me.  If  thou  dost  refuse  me  I  will  go 
solitary  still." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  which  suggested 
more  than  his  words;  which  told  me  that  he  wished 
my  company  for  a  much  longer  period  than  a  spring 
day,  and  that  if  I  did  not  yield,  his  loneliness  would 
be  for  all  his  life.  I  hesitated,  my  mind  in  a  whirl. 
Impetuously,  he  leaped  the  gate,  clambered  up  the 

33 


trellis  work  over  which  the  vines  grew  and  brought 
his  face  at  last  on  a  level  with  mine  own. 

"Anne,"  he  breathed  in  tones  so  silver  sweet  as  to 
melt  the  hardest  woman's  heart;  "dear  Mistress  Anne, 
surely  thou  dost  know,  surely  dost  understand,  that 
I — ah,  what  need  of  words?  And  yet — oh,  Anne,  dear- 
est, stand  not  silent  there,  with  the  color  flaming  into 
thy  dear  fair  face.  I  am  envious  of  the  very  vines 
that  screen  thee.  Say  but  three  words,  sweet,  and 
make  Will  Shakespeare  happy  f orevermore !" 

In  the  midst  of  his  impetuous  pleading  there  came 
to  me  the  recollection  of  my  thoughts  a  half  hour  since ; 
the  memory  of  the  mad  presence  that  had  haunted  my 
childhood  and  girlhood ;  the  vision  of  my  poor  mother's 
ringless  hand 

I  turned  from  the  window.  He  reached  forward 
and  laid  his  hand  on  mine  as  it  rested  upon  the  sill. 
The  touch  was  light,  but  insistent,  imperative. 

"Thou  dost  forget "  I  whispered  again,  falter- 

ingly,  looking  at  him  with  pleading  eyes,  "thou  dost 
forget.  There  is — there  is  a  shadow  on  my  life.  Oh, 
haste  thee  from  me,  lest  it  fall  likewise  on  thee." 

His  lips  rested  on  my  hand  for  an  instant. 

"Ay,  sweetheart,"  he  said,  and  I  could  never  tell 

34 


half  the  trndtmcaB  that  spoke  in  his  voice;  "ay,  I  do 
forget  it,  as  thou,  too,  shalt  forget.  I  will  give  thee  a 
key  to  release  thee  from  thy  prison  of  gloom  and  sor- 
row ;  a  key  of  three  parts.  Tis  1  love  thee,'  Nan.  Say 
it,  sweetheart,  sweetheart.  Say  only  now,  *I  love  thee'; 
then  come  with  me  from  out  the  shadows  into  sun- 
light forevennore.'' 


And  so,  good  sooth, 
was  lifted  the  heavy  pal] 
that  had  lain  over  my  youth 
and  happiness,  and  what 
was  seeming  dead  arose  to 
glorious  resurrection.  "Forevermore!"  Will  had  said. 
"Come  with  me  from  out  the  shadows  into  sunlight 
forevermore !"  Ah,  thou  didst  speak  truly,  thou  dear 
light  of  my  life !  Though  clouds  have  often  sought  to 
darken  the  eternal  brightness  of  thy  love,  behind  them 
still  its  radiance  hath  never  ceased  to  shine;  will  shine 
forever. 

For  a  month  after  that  most  joyous  May  Day  none 
knew  of  our  love.  In  this  matter  Will  bowed  to  my 
wish.  Many  saw  us  together  during  the  afternoon, 
and  marveled  thereat;  but  the  excitements  of  the  day 
were  many,  and  our  companionship  was  speedily  for- 
got. When,  our  Maying  ended,  Will  brought  me 
home,  he  said,  as  we  parted  at  the  gate: 

"To-morrow,  sweetheart,  to-morrow  wilt  thou 
come  with  me  to  my  parents  as  my  promised  bride? 

39 


Our  formal  betrothal  shall  follow  as  speedily  as  may 
be;  our  marriage  when  thou  wilt." 

I  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  soft,  star-lit  night 
seemed  to  whisper  calm  and  confidence,  yet  my  heart 
was  far  from  quiet. 

"Nay,"  I  said,  suddenly,  wistfully,  "thou  dost  not 
know  me,  although  our  faces  have  been  familiar  to  each 
other  these  many  years.  For  a  month — a  month — let 
me  keep  my  happy  secret.  Then,  if  thou  dost  desire 
still  to — to  wed  me " 

He  flung  himself  upon  his  knee  before  me,  and,  in 
knightly  fashion,  kissed  my  hand.  "As  thou  wilt,"  he 
said.  "But  if  me  no  ifs,  thou  cruel  fair.  One  month, 
then,  from  to-night — see,  sweet  Nan,  the  round  moon 

rises  yonder,  and  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear " 

I  laid  my  finger  upon  his  lips. 

"The  moon  changes,"  I  said,  half  laughing,  half  in 
earnest;  "she  changes  monthly,  Will.  Swear  not  by 
the  moon,  lest,  like  her,  thy  love  prove  variable." 

"Then  name  the  oath,"  he  begged,  still  kneeling. 

"Nay,"  said  I;  "no  oath  is  needed.  Swear  not  at 
all;  or,  if  thou  wilt "  my  voice  grew  suddenly  pas- 
sionate— "swear  by  thyself,  thy  dear  and  gracious  self. 
Ah,  Will,  God  forgive  thee  if  thou  dost  play  me  false!" 

40 


CSfrhake  s  pcare?!  —  gltu/c  ef  h 


*  a 


He  sprang  up  instantly  in  indignant  denial,  pour- 
ing forth  vows  and  fond  words.  I  listened  and  be- 
lieved him,  as  is  weak  woman's  wont.  The  evening 
fled  on  wings.  The  round  moon  rose  higher  and  higher 
in  the  heavens.  When  he  left  me,  at  length,  his  be- 
trothal kiss  was  upon  my  lips,  his  promise  given  to  keep 
our  love  secret  for  a  month,  as  I  desired. 

Ah,  what  a  month  it  was  that  followed  ! 

What  wanderings  had  we  through  the  Stratford 
fields!  What  new  music  we  found  in  the  song  of  the 
birds,  what  fresh  sweetness  in  the  flowers  !  The  voices 
of  the  wind  and  the  river,  ever  eloquent  to  him,  spoke 
also  through  him  to  me.  Ofttimes  the  Avon  and  I 
have  listened  to  the  stories  that  the  world  knows  now. 
The  dear  stream  seemed  to  sigh  with  Juliet  or  laugh 
with  Rosalind.  Methought  it  hushed  its  babble  as  the 
spirit  of  Prince  Hamlet  passed,  wrapped  in  ineffable 
mystery;  and  sobbed  in  stormy  trouble  as  poor  mad 
Lear  rushed  by. 

We  learned  to  know  each  other,  too.  Will  heard 
of  my  sad  childhood,  my  shadowed  girlhood,  and  swore 
in  tender  wrath  that  never  should  I  know  sorrow  more. 
I  learned  of  his  far  different  past;  a  childhood  of  plenty; 
a  youth,  which,  although  not  altogether  care-free,  was 

41 


yet  blessed  with  a  happy  home.  His  father  was  one 
of  Stratford's  most  honored  citizens;  his  mother,  a 
stately  dame  of  ancient  family.  I  have  said  that  his 
youth  was  not  altogether  care-free;  nor  was  it;  for  he 
was  tormented  by  increasing  poverty  as  he  grew  older. 
His  father's  affairs  became,  at  length,  hopelessly  en- 
tangled, and  Will  was  obliged  to  seek  some  means  of 
livelihood.  Not  having  been  educated  with  any  expec- 
tation of  such  a  necessity,  he  found  it  hard  to  choose 
an  occupation.  He  had  tried  his  hand  at  many  things 
before  I  met  him.  For  a  while  he  was  lawyer's  clerk. 
Later  he  left  the  desk  to  become  apprentice  to  a  butcher, 
who  offered  higher  wages.  Yet  again  he  occupied  the 
schoolmaster's  chair.  When  we  met,  however,  he  had 
at  length  decided  on  the  life-work  that  was  destined  to 
bring  him  both  fame  and  wealth,  although  as  yet  he 
had  had  no  opportunity  of  adopting  it.  Other  Strat- 
ford lads  had  gone  to  London,  and  had  won  success  as 
players.  A  poet  and  a  player  he  would  be,  then,  and 
strive  thus  to  restore  his  family's  fortunes. 

All  his  dreams,  all  his  plans,  he  confided  to  me,  as 
we  wandered  through  the  fields  or  sat  in  my  grandam's 
little  garden.  The  great  of  history  and  legend  bore  us 
company,  too,  and  whispered  of  a  time  to  come  when 

42 


they  would  live  for  all  the  world.  Meanwhile  the  mys- 
tery of  Will's  love  was  mine,  and  we  were  happy  in 
each  other. 

At  last  the  month  ended.  Strangely,  safely,  our 
secret  had  been  kept.  None  knew,  or  so  we  thought, 
why  Will  came  so  frequently  to  Shottery.  None 
dreamed  that  he  had  any  attraction  there  save  the 
spring  beauty  of  the  fields  and  woods  he  was  known 
to  love  well.  Come  what  might,  that  month  was  ours 
forever. 

The  round  moon  was  rising  again  as  it  had  risen 
that  night  of  our  Maying.  I  stood  at  the  gate  as  I  had 
stood  then,  watching  for  Will's  arrival.  As  I  waited 
there  my  grandam  came  out  and  joined  me. 

Now,  during  the  month  just  completed  I  had  fre- 
quently noticed  that  my  grandam  never  let  me  far  from 
her  sight.  She  must  have  conjectured,  of  course,  the 
state  of  affairs  between  Will  and  me,  although  I  had 
not  actually  told  her  of  our  happiness.  So  unobtrusive 
had  been  her  constant  presence  that  Will  had  marked 
it  not  at  all.  When  I  saw  her  lingering  about  us  I 
thought  that  her  life,  which  had  held  so  little  joy  and 
peace,  was  brightened  by  the  sight  of  our  love  and 
happiness.  The  sequel  proved  me  wrong. 

43 


I  was  surprised  when  she  joined  me  at  the  gate; 
for,  though  never  far  apart  in  the  cottage,  we  seldom 
sought  each  other's  company.  I  was  still  more  sur- 
prised when  she  spoke  first,  for  she  was  a  woman  of 
few  words. 

"It  is  a  clear  and  beauteous  night,"  she  observed, 
calmly,  glancing  up  at  the  moon;  "but  the  summer  is 
still  young,  and  it  is  damp  here  at  the  gate.  Dost  wait 
for  young  Shakespeare,  Nan?" 

She  asked  the  question  in  the  same  tone  in  which 
she  had  commented  upon  the  beauty  of  the  night.  I 
flushed  a  little  at  her  matter-of-fact  manner. 

"Ay,  grandam,"  I  said,  dutifully. 

"He  hath  never  yet  failed  thee,"  she  went  on,  look- 
ing at  me  strangely;  "and  yet  he  is  late  to-night,  Anne, 
very  late." 

"He  will  come,"  I  said,  proudly,  and  turned  away 
from  her. 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  the  searching  gaze  she 
fixed  upon  me  brought  back  my  eyes  unwillingly  to 
her  face. 

"Hath  he "  she  hesitated  a  little,  and  now  her 

voice  was  full  of  suppressed  feeling ;  "hath  he  ever  said 
aught  to  thee  of — marriage?" 

44 


I  looked  her  proudly  in  the  eyes,  and  I  felt  my 
face  aflame.  "Ay,"  I  said,  hotly;  "ay,  from  the  first. 
A  month  ago  he  would  have  betrothed  me,  but  I  be- 
sought him  to  wait." 

My  grandam's  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  a  quick 
breath  of  relief,  but  when  she  spoke  her  voice  was  cold 
again. 

"Thou  fool!"  she  said,  calmly.  "Thou  didst  be- 
seech him  to  wait!  Thou  foolf 

She  paused  an  instant.  I  opened  my  lips  to  reply, 
but  my  indignation  choked  me.  Before  I  found  words 
she  continued: 

"Thou  art  a  fool,  but  why  do  I  blame  thee?  Thou 
scarce  canst  help  it.  Thy  mother  was  the  like.  I  did 
not  know  her  folly  until  too  late."  Her  voice  broke  a 
little,  but  hardened  again  as  she  resumed,  "I  do  know 
thine — I  trust  to  heaven  in  time.  I  hope  wisdom  will 
not  reach  thee  when  it  will  avail  thee  not."  And  with 
that  she  turned  and  went  into  the  cottage. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her  I  felt  two  hands 
clasped  across  my  eyes. 

"Thou  must  guess,"  said  a  voice  I  knew  well,  rich 
with  laughter.  The  penalty's  a  kiss  if  thou  dost  not 
know.  Guess  who  blinds  thee!" 

45 


I  named  his  name  in  tones  that  quivered  a  little. 
He  heard  my  tremulous  answer,  he  felt  the  tears  in 
my  eyes,  and  his  voice  changed  instantly. 

"What  ails  thee,  sweeting?  Why  dost  weep? 
Share  thy  sorrow  with  me." 

But  this  I  could  not  do,  although  he  begged  me 
sorely.  My  grandam's  words  had  been  harsh,  but  they 
were  kindly  meant  and  she  had  deemed  them  deserved. 
I  could  not  repeat  them  to  Will,  for  they  would  show 
lack  of  trust  in  him.  Besides,  my  sorrow  was  ended 
now  he  had  come.  I  told  him  so,  smiling  my  tears  away. 

He  shook  his  head  when  I  evaded  an  answer  to 
his  entreating,  but  yielded  to  my  desire.  "I  have  a 
story  to  tell  thee,"  he  said,  gravely.  "Before  I  begin 
let  me  ask  thee  to  believe  that  I  would  not  beg  of  thee 
the  boon  that  I  shall  crave,  seemed  it  not  best  for  thee. 
Thou  knowest  Sir  Thomas  Lucy?" 

I  looked  at  him  askance  at  this  abrupt  changing 
of  the  subject,  and  I  nodded. 

"Everyone  knows  Sir  Thomas,"  I  said.  "Had  he 
been  given  his  way  the  Maypole  would  have  been  cut 
down  and  the  players  would  not  be  coming  to  Strat- 
ford next  week.  He  is  a  Puritan  of  the  Puritans,  Will. 
Why  dost  thou  speak  of  him  now?" 

46 


"For  many  reasons,  sweetheart,"  Will  answered; 
"but  chiefly  because — the  tale  is  long.  Wilt  go  within?" 

"Nay,"  I  said,  hurriedly,  bitterly.  "Nay,  I  will  not 
within;  speak  on." 

He  glanced  at  me  as  if  puzzled  by  my  tone,  but 
said  nothing  about  it  then.  In  a  rapid,  low  voice  he 
told  his  story,  interrupting  himself  now  and  again  to 
laugh  at  some  reminiscence  of  the  past  or  at  some  plan 
for  the  future. 

Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  the  pompous,  Puritanical  owner 
of  Charlcote,  had  strictly  forbidden  the  stealing  of  deer 
from  his  Park.  This  I  knew,  and  also  that  the  law, 
although  just,  was  scarce  generous;  for  it  had  been  a 
tradition  in  his  family  to  allow  a  certain  number  of 
deer  each  twelve-month  for  the  use  of  the  people  of  the 
surrounding  country.  This  unwritten  compact  with 
the  commoners  Sir  Thomas  had  set  aside,  thereby 
arousing  wonder,  and  later  wrath,  among  them.  At 
first  the  countryfolk  had  been  unable  to  believe  Sir 
Thomas  in  earnest,  and  deer  continued  to  disappear 
now  and  then  from  the  Park.  Finally,  however,  the 
wrath  of  the  knight  had  blazed  high  at  the  continued 
disregard  of  his  decree.  One  or  two  Stratford  lads  had 
been  arrested  several  days  before  on  the  charge  of  deer- 

47 


stealing.  Therefore,  to-morrow  night  all  loyal  Strat- 
ford youths 

At  this  point,  in  the  interest  of  his  narrative,  Will's 
voice  unconsciously  rose.  So  absorbed  was  I  in  what 
he  was  saying  that  I  scarce  noted  the  fact,  but  after- 
wards I  realized  that  it  had  been  so.  Had  I  looked 
back  then,  I  imagine,  I  should  have  seen  my  grandarn 
somewhere  near.  But  I  did  not  look,  and  Will  thought 
not  of  any  auditor  save  myself. 

"Therefore,  Nan,"  he  said,  "the  brave  lads  of 
Stratford  have  planned  a  vengeance  to  rebuke  the 
churlish  knight.  To-morrow  evening  we  meet  at  Charl- 
cote  and  go  a-hunting,  sweetheart,  but  not  for  deer 
alone.  And  when  we  have  found  our  game  we  will 
sing  for  Sir  Thomas  that  little  song  of  mine : 

"What  shall  he  have  that  killed  the  deer?" 

He  carolled  the  line  lustily,  then  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Sir  Thomas  will  long  remember  that  hunting,  me- 
thinks." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  looked  at  me  anxiously. 

"The  moon  hath  gone  behind  a  cloud,  sweet  Nan, 
and  the  light  is  dim ;  yet  soothly,  I  can  read  disapproval 
in  thy  face.  'Tis  a  rough  joke  enough;  but  truly  the 

48 


knight  deserves  that  it  be  played  upon  him.  Nathe- 
less,  I  should  not  have  told  thee  of  it,  not  troubled  thee 
with  the  story,  except " 

He  paused  again,  then  came  closer  to  me  and  put 
his  arm  about  me. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said,  "beyond  Charlcote  there  is 
a  priest,  and  we  can  find  two  witnesses  among  the 
Stratford  lads.  To-day  the  month  ends,  dear  Nan. 
To-morrow,  wilt  be  mine  forever?" 

I  clung  to  him  in  silence,  and  for  an  instant  could 
not  speak.  He  went  on  rapidly,  gently. 

"Sooth,  I  were  proud  to  wed  thee,  dear,  before  all 
the  world;  but  who  knows,  who  knows  what  may  be- 
fall? Besides — daily  my  family's  affairs  grow  more 
straitened.  If  the  players  come  next  week,  I  may  per- 
chance go  with  them  back  to  London.  Such  an  oppor- 
tunity might  not  occur  again.  Before  I  go  I  would 
have  thee  safely  mine,  dear  heart;  and  a  wedding  after 
the  usual  fashion  would  take  long  to  arrange." 

He  paused  again.    Still  I  could  not  speak. 

"Nan,  Nan,"  he  went  on,  passionately,  "God  wot, 
I  grieve  sore  to  ask  this  of  thee,  yet  I  see  no  other  way. 
For  this  once  trust  me,  sweetheart,  and  listen  to  my 
plan.  The  sport  will  be  rough  and  fast  to-morrow 

49 


night  at  Charlcote.  While  it  is  at  its  height  we  can 
slip  away,  find  the  priest,  and " 

"But,"  I  faltered  forth  at  length,  "but  how  can  I 
go  with  thee?" 

"I  will  bring  horses  hither,"  Will  answered  with- 
out an  instant's  hesitation.  He  had  evidently  thought 
out  the  plan  most  carefully.  "A  long  cloak  shall  dis- 
guise thee  effectually  enough,  for  thou  wilt  not  be  long 
among  the  rest.  Then,  after  we  are  wedded,  I  will 
bring  thee  home  at  once." 

"My  grandam "  I  whispered. 

Will  looked  at  me  in  surprise. 

"Thy  grandam?"  he  repeated.  "Thou  wilt  tell  her, 
of  course.  She  surely  hath  guessed  what  lies  between 
us.  Tell  her,  by  all  means.  To-morrow  night  at  this 
hour  will  I  come  for  thee,  bringing  the  cloak  and  the 
horses.  What  say'st,  Nan?  Wilt  be  ready,  sweet?" 

I  felt  his  firm,  tender  hand  on  mine.  Ah,  how 
could  I  hesitate  an  instant?  I  raised  my  face  to  his 
and  spoke,  forgetting  all  else:  "I  shall  be  ready;  and 
whither  thou  wilt,  I  shall  go,  my  beloved." 

I  heard  him  give  a  quick  breath  of  relief. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said,  and  kissed  me.  "I  will  not 
fail  thee,  sweetheart;  and  may  God  speed  our  plan!" 


rhe 


All  was  still  in  the 
house,  and  the  door  of 
my  grandam's  room  was 
closed,  when,  an  hour 
later,  I  went  to  bed. 
I  hesitated  beside  her 

chamber  a  moment,  half-minded  to  go  in  and  tell  her 
of  our  plan;  but  it  was  late;  all  was  quiet.  I  went  on 
to  my  own  room,  resolving  to  reveal  all  in  the  morning. 
I  had  uneasy  dreams  that  night,  and  once  I  awak- 
ened with  a  start,  quite  certain  that  I  had  heard  the 
cautious  opening  and  closing  of  a  door.  I  listened 
attentively  for  several  moments,  but  heard  nothing; 
and  I  concluded  that  I  must  have  been  dreaming. 
When  at  length  I  fell  asleep  again  my  slumber  was 
sound,  and  I  did  not  awaken  until  much  later  than  was 
my  wont.  Dismayed  that  the  sun  had  moved  so  high, 
I  dressed  hurriedly  and  ran  down-stairs.  My  grandam 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

For  a  while  I  stood  dismayed  at  her  absence,  all 
sorts  of  wild  conjectures  floating  through  my  brain. 
But  presently  I  calmed  myself.  My  grandam  often 


went  into  Stratford  to  the  innkeeper,  Mistress  Quickly, 
to  sell  the  produce  of  our  garden.  This  was  probably 
what  she  had  done  this  morning.  Sometimes  she  spent 
the  night  at  the  inn.  If  she  did  so  this  time,  nothing 
of  our  marriage  need  be  said  to  her  until  I  chose.  If 
she  returned  early  or  late  in  the  evening,  however,  and 
found  me  gone — I  dismissed  the  fear  with  an  effort. 
All  was  pointing  towards  a  happy  consummation  of 
our  plans.  I  would  not  imagine  trouble.  Speed  on- 
ward, happy  day,  and  bring  the  joyous  night! 

The  hours  went  by  and  my  grandam  came  not. 
Evening  arrived  and  still  there  were  no  signs  of  her. 
At  length,  with  trembling  fingers,  I  dressed  myself  in 
my  darkest  gown  and  sat  down  to  await  Will's  coming. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait.  Promptly  at  moonrise  I 
heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  next  his  familiar  quick  foot- 
step on  the  path  below.  I  went  to  meet  him. 

"Art  ready?"  he  whispered.  "That's  brave.  Come. 
Here  is  thy  cloak."  He  wrapped  it  about  me  with 
rapid,  skillful  fingers,  then  put  on  a  similar  one  himself. 
So  closely  were  we  muffled  that  one  could  not  tell  which 
was  man,  which  maid.  Even  after  we  had  mounted, 
Will  paused  and  arranged  the  draperies  so  that  the 
distinction  would  still  be  hard  to  make. 

54 


SSlfrake  spcarg&l  — .  (Sltu/g  efrhearrt 

Once  on  horseback,  I  forgot  my  tremors.  The 
night  was  very  lovely.  There  was  a  June  softness  in 
the  air.  The  round  moon  smiled  upon  us.  The  friendly 
stars  brightened  our  pathway.  The  scent  of  roses  made 
the  evening  faintly  sweet,  mysterious.  And  through 
this  brightness  and  sweetness  I  rode  with  my  true  lover 
at  my  side,  and  forgot  all  else. 

Arriving  at  the  Charlcote  gates,  at  last,  we  dis- 
mounted cautiously,  and  Will  led  the  horses  to  some 
distance  before  tying  them.  Then  he  returned  to  me, 
and  spoke  low  and  rapidly: 

"Keep  thy  cloak  well  about  thee,  and  come,  dear 
Nan.  I  must  show  myself  to  the  lads,  that  they  may 
see  I  am  faithful  to  the  compact.  They  are  not  aware 
of  thy  presence,  nor  need  they  know  who  thou  art. 
Follow,  and  trust  to  me." 

A  moment  later  we  arrived  in  the  midst  of  a  silent, 
cautiously-moving  group  which  had  evidently  been 
awaiting  Will's  arrival.  He  quickly  gave  a  few  sug- 
gestions and  commands,  obeying  which  the  crowd  scat- 
tered in  various  directions.  At  the  house  all  were  to 
meet,  bring  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  forth  and  clap  upon  his 
head  the  horns  from  one  of  the  stolen  deer,  while  the 
lads  sang  Will's  derisive  verses.  The  plan  had  been 

55 


arranged  before.  It  took  but  a  few  moments  to  start 
the  youths  on  their  way  to  the  house.  Will  waited 
until  the  last;  then  turned  to  me. 

"Now,  Nan,  now  is  our  time.  They  will  deem  that 
I  have  deserted  them,  but  all  can  be  explained  later.  I 
have  asked  two  of  my  comrades  to  join  us  at  a  certain 
point;  I  did  not  say  for  what  reason,  but  I  know  they 
will  keep  tryst.  Come,  then,  sweetheart,  let  us  hasten 
to  the  meeting-place.  The  Charlcote  woods  await  us 
in  the  moonlight;  such  woods  as  these  surely  are  not 
in  all  England  else,  Nan.  See  how  the  sweet  night  doth 
gently  kiss  the  trees,  and  look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold." 

So  talking,  he  hurried  me  along,  peopling  the  forest 
for  me,  as  often  before,  with  the  creatures  of  his  fancy. 

"Canst  not  almost  see  the  fairies,  Nan?"  he  said. 
"That  mossy  bank  is  fit  to  be  the  couch  of  Queen 
Titania  herself.  Mark  those  lights  that  thou  seest 
flicker  hither  and  yon.  They  are  not  glow-worms,  Nan, 
as  thou  might'st  think ;  but  King  Oberon  and  his  elves, 
who  are  flitting  there.  See  yon  bat !  his  flight's  impeded 
by  a  fairy  on  his  back.  Would  we  had  more  time  to 
search  beneath  these  nodding  blossoms;  for  there  the 

sprites  sleep,  airily  and  soft.    And  yonder " 

56 


A  sudden  loud  confusion  of  voices  broke  across  his 
murmured  fancies  and  put  an  end  to  the  peace  of  the 
perfect  night.  Will  stopped  short. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  cried,  half  to  himself, 
half  to  me.  "Surely,  the  plan  could  not  fail.  Nan,  stay 
here  until  I  join  thee.  We  are  near  the  meeting-place 
that  I  appointed."  And  with  that  he  darted  off  through 
the  woods  like  an  arrow. 

But  for  once  I  disobeyed  him.  After  him  I  fol- 
lowed as  rapidly  as  I  could,  for  I  was  encumbered  by 
my  cloak,  and  went  far  enough  to  see  him  at  length 
rush  forward  and  join  in  the  yelling,  confused  melee 
that  pushed  and  swore  and  shouted  just  outside  the 
door  of  the  mansion.  I  paused  on  the  edge  of  the  Park, 
within  the  shadow  of  a  tree. 

I  saw  in  an  instant  that  Sir  Thomas  had  not  been 
captured.  The  reverse  seemed  to  be  the  case;  for  I 
noted  that  several  of  the  Stratford  lads  had  their  arms 
bound,  while  the  knight  stood  pompously  on  the  steps, 
apparently  giving  directions  as  to  the  disposal  of  his 
prisoners.  The  struggle  between  those  who  had  not 
yet  been  overpowered  and  the  knight's  servants  still 
continued,  and  the  issue  seemed  doubtful.  Will  rushed 
at  once  into  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and  I  loved  him  the 

57 


better  for  not  deserting  his  comrades  in  their  peril.  His 
arrival  seemed  to  give  the  rest  new  courage,  and  they 
struggled  desperately  to  escape  capture;  but  it  was  a 
vain  endeavor.  Many  as  they  were,  the  knight's  men 
outnumbered  them  three  to  one.  One  by  one  the  Strat- 
ford lads  were  overpowered,  lastly  even  Will.  He 
made  a  fierce  endeavor  to  conquer  his  captors,  and  his 
strength  seemed  almost  preternatural.  I  knew  why. 
He  thought  of  me,  waiting  for  him  among  the  trees, 
and  of  our  plans  for  the  happy  ending  to  this  night's 
frolic.  But  at  last,  even  he  was  overcome. 

Two  burly  knaves  bore  him  to  the  earth  with  a 
shout  of  triumph.  For  a  moment  he  ceased  to  struggle, 
and  he  lay  as  if  dead.  When  I  saw  that  I  forgot  all 
else.  I  remembered  not  who  nor  where  I  was.  I  saw 
only  Will  lying  stark  upon  the  ground.  I  sped  forward 
from  the  tree's  friendly  shadow,  and  the  next  instant 
found  myself,  I  scarce  knew  how,  kneeling  beside  him. 
There  was  a  sudden  calm  in  the  tumult  about  me.  All 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  my  face  in  wonder.  But  to  me 
it  was  as  if  Will  and  I  were  alone.  The  rest  seemed 
as  shadows.  I  heard  my  own  voice  like  some  one's 
else,  sobbing  and  calling  his  name. 


Coursed! 


"Ha!  what  means  this?" 
I  heard  Sir  Thomas  Lucy 
exclaim,  as,  realizing  on  the 
instant  the  imprudence  of 
my  action,  I  cowered  down 
beside  Will,  muffling  my 
face  in  my  cloak.  "Seize 
him,  varlets,  seize  him! 
What  new  villainy  is  this?" 

Two  stout  men  stepped  forward  immediately.  Ere 
they  reached  me,  however,  attention  was  diverted  from 
me.  As  if  knowing  that  I  had  need  of  him,  Will  stirred, 
opened  his  eyes  in  dazed  fashion,  then  sat  upright.  The 
next  moment,  comprehending  the  situation  in  a  flash, 
he  was  on  his  feet. 

"Nay,"  he  cried,  standing  between  me  and  the  glare 
of  the  torches,  and  making  a  quick  gesture  betwixt 
command  and  appeal ;  "nay,  I  protest,  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 
This  friend  is  no  Stratford  lad,  and  hath  not  taken  part 
in  this  night's  business.  Prythee,  therefore,  bid  thy 
servants  forbear!" 

Will's  body  shielding  me,  I  raised  my  head  breath- 
lessly and  peeped  at  Sir  Thomas  with  wide  eyes  of 
apprehension.  The  torches'  light  shone  full  upon  him, 

61 


and  revealed  a  look  of  satisfied  malice  and  sneering 
triumph  on  his  pale,  puritanical  face. 

"Aha!"  he  said,  slowly,  replying  to  Will.  "A 
friend,  say'st?  A  friend  of  thine,  most  like;  a  poor 
recommendation!  What  ho!  More  torches  there!" 

Will  had  done  his  best  to  shield  me  and  had  failed. 
He  gave  a  deep,  despairing  sigh  as  the  lights  came 
flashing  towards  us.  I  rose,  trembling,  my  cloak  still 
wrapped  about  me.  But  again  a  diversion  occurred. 
The  heavy  door  behind  Sir  Thomas  opened  ponder- 
ously; and  on  its  threshold  appeared  three  unexpected 
figures;  Lady  Lucy,  Mistress  Mary  Shakespeare,  and 
— my  grandam. 

At  sight  of  them  I  stood  as  if  turned  to  stone.  I 
had  nerved  myself  to  meet  exposure  and  recognition; 
but  I  had  not  expected  treachery.  Will  made  no  sign 
of  surprise.  He  stood  immovable,  his  arms  folded.  Sir 
Thomas  shot  a  quick  glance  at  us  both;  then  gave  a 
rapid  order  to  his  servants.  In  reply,  the  latter  began 
the  difficult  task  of  removing  the  captive  Stratford  lads 
to  the  house  for  safe-keeping.  'Twas  an  arduous  duty 
that  they  strove  to  perform,  for  their  prisoners  were 
most  unruly.  The  air  was  filled  with  mocking  protests, 
profane  threatenings,  and  rough  jests  at  Sir  Thomas's 

62 


expense.  These  last  made  the  knight  turn  purple  with 
rage,  and  he  was  restrained  from  setting  upon  the  saucy 
knaves  himself  only  by  the  cries  and  pleadings  of  his 
lady.  Finally,  however,  the  task  was  accomplished. 
The  last  Stratford  lad  was  forced  into  the  house  by  his 
captors,  the  great  door  closed  upon  them  all,  and  a 
brief  lull  ensued. 

Sir  Thomas,  choking  and  sputtering  with  anger,  at 
length  managed  to  regain  some  slight  measure  of  self- 
control.  When  he  had  reached  this  point,  he  put  his 
lady  impatiently  aside  and  beckoned  to  Will  and  me. 
At  the  summons  Will  offered  me  his  hand  in  silence. 
I  laid  my  cold  fingers  within  his.  So,  like  two  children, 
we  went  forward  to  meet  our  fate. 

"Will  Shakespeare,"  began  Sir  Thomas,  pomp- 
ously, as  we  finally  came  to  a  standstill  before  him; 
"  'tis  a  mad  and  vicious  deed  that  thou  didst  plan  this 
night.  The  Lord  be  praised  that  thou  wast  hindered 
from  carrying  it  out." 

Will  gazed  at  him  without  a  word.  The  knight's 
whining  piety  was  so  obviously  an  outer  crust  of  his 
real  nature.  'Twas  a  convenient  coat  to  show  a  goodly 
outside  to  the  world;  but  within  there  dwelt  how  poor 
and  mean  a  soul! 

63 


"Thou  hast  done  me  good  service,  Dame  Hath- 
away," the  knight  continued,  condescendingly,  turning 
to  my  grandam.  He  was  evidently  somewhat  confused 
by  Will's  steadfast,  scornful  eyes.  "I  shall  not  forget 
it,  and " 

"The  service  is  Mistress  Shakespeare's  as  well  as 
mine,"  responded  my  grandam,  her  eyes  fixed  full  upon 
my  face.  "I  told  her  of  the  plot  I  overheard;  and  it 
was  by  her  advice  that  I  came  hither  to  seek  thy  wor- 
ship. I  trust  that  thou  wilt  not  forget  the  promise  thou 
didst  make,  that  my  grand-daughter's  share  in  this 
escapade  shall  remain  unknown  except  to  those  here 
present.  This  boon,  Sir  Thomas,  thou  hast  granted  me 
in  return  for  my  warning.  As  for  Master  Shakespeare, 
his  mother  must  speak.  She  learned  to-day,  for  the  first, 
of  her  son's  entanglement  with  my  grand-daughter." 

"And  heard  it  to  my  sorrow  and  shame,"  added 
Mistress  Shakespeare,  in  a  low,  clear  voice,  so  like 
Will's  that  my  heart  was  strangely  stirred.  "I  had 
deemed  my  son  a  man  of  honor,  worthy  of  his  Arden 
blood.  Never  before  in  all  his  life  hath  he  been  guilty 
of  deception,  nor  concealed  aught  from  me." 

Then,  indeed,  Will  started  as  if  stung.  He  made 
an  impetuous  step  towards  her. 

64 


"Sweet  mother,"  he  began,  eagerly,  imploringly, 
"dear  lady,  say  not  so.  Thou  know'st  not  all.  I  could 
not  tell  thee  sooner.  Indeed,  indeed,  deception  and  dis- 
honor were  far  from  my  thoughts.  I  have  longed  for 
the  day  when  I  could  bring  her  to  thee,  could  give  thee 
a  daughter " 

His  mother  made  a  gesture  of  abhorrence,  and  cast 
a  fleeting,  scornful  glance  at  me. 

"Thou  didst  intend  to  marry  her!"  she  said,  slowly, 
and  the  disdain  in  her  voice  cut  me  to  the  very  heart. 
"This  passes !  Thou  wouldst  have  taken  as  thy  wedded 
wife  this  madwoman's  daughter,  this  bastard " 

Will's  imperative,  uplifted  hand  made  her  pause; 
his  eyes  blazed  with  anger.  He  turned  from  Mistress 
Shakespeare  and  drew  me  to  his  breast  with  an  ex- 
quisite movement  of  protection. 

"By  that  speech  thou  hast  lost  a  son,  mother,"  he 
said,  quietly,  and  the  calm  decision  of  his  words  was 
more  effective  than  any  storm  of  rage.  Then  he  spoke 
to  me,  with  infinite  tenderness.  "Thou  hearest,  be- 
loved! 'Tis  as  I  feared,  and  yet  I  hoped  also.  This 
is  why  I  sought  to  wed  thee  as  I  did.  All  my  life  shall 
recompense  thee  for  those  words,  sweetheart!" 

His  voice  was  low,  but  perfectly  distinct.  His 
65 


mother  turned  scarlet,  and  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 
Despising  me  before,  surely  she  hated  me  now.  But 
Will's  self-control  was  an  inheritance.  She  turned 
calmly  to  Sir  Thomas. 

"Do  with  him  as  thou  wilt.  Some  madness  soothly 
affects  him  or  some  potent  spell  hath  bewitched  him. 
Strive,  prythee,  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  Dame 
Hathaway,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  warning.  Lady  Lucy, 
I  crave  thy  hospitality  for  the  night.  On  the  morrow 
I  will  return  to  Stratford." 

So  saying,  with  a  stately  curtsey  to  Sir  Thomas 
and  Lady  Lucy,  and  a  gracious  inclination  to  my 
grandam,  Mistress  Shakespeare  entered  the  house. 

The  knight  cleared  his  throat  pompously  as  she 
disappeared. 

"A  foolish  son  is  the  heaviness  of  his  mother,"  he 
observed,  sanctimoniously,  rolling  his  eyes  heavenward ; 
"and  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard.  Thy  sin 
hath  found  thee  out,  Will  Shakespeare,  and " 

"Waste  no  words,  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Will,  inter- 
rupting him  unceremoniously;  "I  am  in  thy  power,  as 
thou  knowest  right  well.  Do  with  me  as  thou  wilt." 

The  knight  opened  his  mouth  to  utter  another 
high-sounding  sentence,  but  this  time,  to  my  surprise, 

66 


my  grandam  interposed.    Her  face  was  white,  and  her 
voice  sounded  curiously  husky. 

"Sir  Thomas,"  she  said,  "thou  hast  said  that  I  have 
done  thee  good  service  this  night.  I  have  now  a  further 
boon  to  crave  than  the  one  thou  hast  already  granted 
me.  Prythee,  let  me  speak  to  these  two  for  a  brief 
space  in  private." 

Sir  Thomas  looked  at  her,  amazed;  but  her  face 
was  inscrutable.  He  muttered  to  himself  for  a  moment, 
gazing  upon  her  with  suspicion;  but  finally  his  coun- 
tenance cleared.  She  had  indeed  done  him  a  great 
service.  The  favor  she  asked  was  a  harmless  one.  His 
triumph  over  his  enemies  had  been  so  complete  that  he 
could  afford  to  be  somewhat  magnanimous. 

"Have  thy  wish,"  he  said  at  length,  albeit  some- 
what ungraciously.  "I  will  remain  just  within.  If  he 
should  attempt  escape,  one  call  will  suffice  to  bring  me." 
And  with  that  he  made  his  exit,  his  lady  fluttering 
about  him  like  a  bird  around  its  mate. 

The  instant  he  was  gone,  Will's  self-restraint  flew 
to  the  winds.  He  caught  me  yet  closer  to  him,  mur- 
muring passionate  caressing  words,  explanations,  apol- 
ogies. It  was  as  if  he  could  not  do  enough  to  make 
amends  for  his  mother's  cruel  scorn. 

67 


"But  stay,"  he  said,  suddenly  checking  himself; 
"the  time  is  brief.  Tell  me,  sweetheart,  tell  me  that 
thou  dost  trust  me  still.  Oh,  never  fear,  dear  love; 
happiness  shall  yet  be  ours,  and  this  past  woe  shall 
seem  to  us  as  naught.  See,  Nan,"  and  he  gently  turned 
my  face  towards  the  tranquil  scene  beyond ;  "see  where 
Charlcote  lies  in  the  moonlight,  calm  and  heavenly  fair. 
Even  so,  one  day,  shall  be  our  wedded  bliss,  Nan,  dear 
Nan,  my  sweetheart,  my  wife!" 

I  murmured  a  tender  word  or  two,  and  laid  my 
hands  in  his  with  perfect  trust.  Past  troubles,  future 
perplexities,  were  as  naught.  He  bent  his  head  and 
kissed  me. 

"Light  of  my  life,  I  thank  thee.  A  time  will  come, 
I  hope,  when  thy  trust  shall  be  rewarded;  a  time  when 
thou  wilt  be  proud  that  thou  art  Shakespeare's  sweet- 
heart." 

"Of  that  she  is  proud  now,"  said  a  low  voice  be- 
hind us.  We  turned  with  a  start.  We  had  entirely 
forgotten  my  grandam's  presence.  "She  is  proud  now, 
and  well  she  may  be,"  she  added,  to  my  complete  sur- 
prise. Will  looked  at  her  sternly. 

"Why  thou  didst  choose  to  play  the  spy  I  know 
not,  Dame  Hathaway,"  he  said,  somewhat  bitterly. 

68 


"Methinks  thou  didst  do  so  scarce  effectually.  I 
brought  thy  grand-daughter  here  this  night,  meaning 
to  take  her  back  to  Shottery  as  my  wedded  wife.  That 
she  is  not  such  at  this  moment  is  thine  own  fault,  and 
thine  alone." 

"Ay,"  answered  my  grandam,  in  an  odd,  breathless 
tone,  and  her  hands  made  a  strange  wavering  move- 
ment as  if  she  besought  his  pardon;  "ay,  so  I  heard 
thee  tell  thy  mother.  I  have  wronged  thee,  Will  Shake- 
speare, wronged  thee  much.  I  crave  thy  forgiveness. 
I  had  a  daughter  once — 'tis  an  old  story.  Well,  I  feared 
lest  that  daughter's  daughter "  She  paused  abruptly. 

"I  cannot  make  amends,"  she  went  on  presently; 
"yet  I  can  at  least  explain,  and  hope  for  the  future. 
Tis  true,  I  overheard  but  part  of  thy  plans.  I  under- 
stood that  Nan  was  coming  hither  with  thee,  and  that 
she  would  be  the  only  woman  present.  Ere  thou  hadst 
gone  I  slipped  away  to  Stratford  and  told  thy  mother 
all  I  knew.  She  was  amazed  and  displeased,  as  thou 
hast  seen,  and  advised  that  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  be  warned. 
When  I  returned  to  Shottery  it  was  very  late.  Thou 
hadst  gone  and  Nan  had  retired  to  her  chamber.  I  had 
left  my  door  closed,  that  she  might  think  I  slept  within. 
When  I  returned  from  my  interview  with  thy  mother, 

69 


I  opened  it  most  cautiously,  yet  it  creaked  villainously, 
and  again  when  I  closed  it.    Didst  hear  it,  Nan?" 

"Ay,"  I  answered ;  "but  thought  it  a  dream.  I  had 
no  idea  that  thou  wert  not  in  the  house  when  I  sought 
my  room." 

"To-day,"  my  grandam  went  on,  "I  went  to  Mis- 
tress Shakespeare  as  we  had  planned,  and  we  came  to- 
gether to  Sir  Thomas  with  our  story.  I  meant  all  for 
the  best;  wilt  not  believe  it,  Nan?  Wilt  not  believe  it, 
Master  Shakespeare?  Sir  Thomas  has  promised  me 
that  Nan's  share  in  this  night's  doings  shall  remain  a 
secret.  When  thy  punishment  is  over " 

"Ay,  when,"  Will  said,  more  gloomily  than  I  had 
ever  heard  him  speak.  "Sir  Thomas  is  not  a  man  to 
forgive  easily,  nor  to  punish  lightly." 

"But  he  cannot  do  more  than  imprison  thee,"  my 
grandam  urged.  "And  when  thou  art  free -" 

What  sudden  impulse  caused  the  thought  I  know 
not,  but  at  that  moment  an  idea  occurred  to  me. 

"Free!"  I  whispered.  "Never  fear,  Will,  thou  shalt 
be  free  soon.  I  know  a  way." 

He  shook  his  head.  "What  thou  mean'st  I  know 
not,  sweetheart;  but  free  I  shall  be  one  day,  assuredly, 

and  until  then " 

70 


'.fakegpcafeTl 


Itwceffrearfj 


The  great  door  creaked  and  we  heard  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  voice.  Will  turned  hurriedly  to  my  grandam 
and  spoke  with  sudden  passion: 

"Dame  Hathaway,  I  trust  thee;  I  must  perforce. 
Guard  her  for  me  until  I  may  make  her  mine;  and  God 
forgive  thee  if  thou  dost  play  us  false  f 


The  next  morning  at 
dawn  my  grandam  and  I 
returned  to  Shottery.  We 
traversed  the  way  on  foot, 
and  for  the  most  part  in 
silence.  What  had  become 
of  the  two  horses  that  Will 
had  left  on  the  borders  of  the  Park  was  a  mystery  to 
me  then.  Afterwards  I  learned  that  one  of  Sir  Thomas's 
servants  had  captured  them  as  spoils  of  war.  That  we 
walked  in  silence  was  no  surprise  to  me,  for  my 
grandam  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  woman  of  few  words. 
Her  flow  of  conversation  to  Will  and  me  on  the  ter- 
race had  astonished  me.  Only  sudden  and  great  reason 
could  have  so  stirred  her  to  speech. 

The  night  before,  I  had  galloped  on  horseback 
along  this  same  road  in  its  moonlit  beauty.  To-day 
in  the  dreary  dawn  I  dragged  my  laggard  feet  towards 
home.  Yet  all  was  not  dark.  My  grandam  and  Will 
had  reached  an  understanding;  and  my  idea,  the  sud- 
den hopeful  thought  that  had  come  to  me  the  night 
before,  still  stayed  with  me  and  animated  my  weary 
spirits. 

My  grandam  said  naught  of  this,  nor  of  anything 

75 


else.  She  had  relapsed  again  into  her  ordinary  mood 
of  calm  self-possession.  Only  once  did  she  speak  to 
me.  That  was  when  we  stood  again  at  the  door  of  our 
cottage. 

"The  way  was  long  and  weary,"  she  said,  looking 
at  me  with  a  new  softness  in  her  eyes;  "but  take 
courage,  Nan.  The  sun  hath  risen." 

I  understood  the  double  meaning  she  intended  to 
convey. 

"Ay,  grandam,"  I  answered,  gently;  "but  for  me 
the  sun  rose  forever  a  month  since,  when  Will  Shake- 
speare first  told  me  of  his  love." 

And  with  that  we  entered  the  cottage,  and,  with- 
out speaking  further,  began  our  morning  tasks. 

The  day  passed  slowly,  but  evening  came  at  last, 
and  with  it  a  neighbor  who  brought  us  tidings  of  Will 
and  his  friends.  The  knight's  wrath  had  blazed  high 
at  his  repeated  injuries,  and  all  the  lads  were  sentenced 
to  varying  terms  of  imprisonment.  Will,  being  the 
ringleader,  was  doomed  to  the  longest  captivity. 

The  news  was  not  unexpected,  so  neither  my 
grandam  nor  I  evinced  great  surprise.  When,  disap- 
pointed at  our  lack  of  emotion,  the  gossip  had  gone  to 
spread  the  news  elsewhere,  I  said: 

76 


Ifhte  g  pcareFl 


"Have  the  players  come  yet  to  Stratford,  grandam?" 

"Nay,  lass,  but  they  arrive  to-morrow,"  she  an- 
swered. "When  I  was  in  the  town  yesterday  Dame 
Quickly  was  making  great  preparations.  They  are 
huge  feeders,  she  says." 

"I  wonder,"  I  said,  reflectively,  "I  wonder  if  she 
would  care  to  have  me  go  to  help  her.  I  have  done 
so  before  when  she  was  hard  pressed." 

"Ay,  I  think  likely,  since  thou  art  a  favorite  of 
hers,"  my  grandam  answered.  "Why  dost  wish  to  go?" 

But  I  did  not  desire  yet  to  tell  my  real  reason, 
even  to  her. 

"The  extra  coins  she  pays  me  will  not  come  amiss," 
I  answered,  evasively;  "and  I  should  like  to  see  the 
players.  I  have  never  yet  beheld  them." 

"Then  go  when  thou  wilt,  lass,"  said  my  grandam. 
"To-morrow  morn,  if  thou  desirest.  Dame  Quickly 
will  welcome  thee,  I  know.'* 

Before  we  slept  that  night  it  was  agreed  that  I 
should  do  this,  and  I  went  to  bed  well  pleased. 

The  town  was  all  astir  when  I  entered  it  next  day. 
The  coming  of  the  players  always  formed  one  of  the 
few  great  excitements  in  Stratford.  The  inn,  espe- 
cially, I  found  in  bustle  and  excitement,  and  as  my 

77 


grandam  had  predicted,  Dame  Quickly  welcomed  me 
with  effusion.  The  players  were  expected  in  the  after- 
noon, and  I  was  set  to  making  a  huge  pasty  for  their 
delectation. 

How  many  hopes  and  fears,  what  tremors  and 
confidences,  went  into  that  pasty  along  with  the  ma- 
terials that  composed  it!  So  far  my  sudden  plan 
had  prospered  well.  Would  I  be  able  to  carry  it  yet 
further? 

I  put  my  best  skill  into  the  making  of  the  pasty, 
and  it  looked  most  inviting  when  I  had  finished.  Dame 
Quickly  was  so  delighted  with  its  success  that  I  was 
emboldened  to  take  my  second  step  in  the  pathway 
I  had  planned  for  myself. 

"Wilt  let  me  wait  on  the  table,  Mistress  Quickly? 
I  would  like  well  to  see  the  players." 

She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  looked  at  me  critically, 
kindly. 

"Thou  art — well,  if  thou  wilt  have  it,  thou  art  too 
comely,  Nan,"  she  said  at  length.  "They  are  loose, 
rough  men,  some  of  them.  Thy  golden  hair,  thy  large 
eyes,  thy  smooth  skin  would  captivate  their  eyes — 
perhaps  to  thine  own  hurt.  I  should  never  forgive 
myself  shouldst  thou  meet  harm  through  me." 

78 


—  »  jSliwc  et  hear 


I  flushed  rosily,  both  at  the  suggestion  of  her  words 
and  at  the  admiration  they  conveyed.  What  woman 
loves  not  to  hear  that  she  is  beautiful? 

"I  will  strive  to  conduct  myself  properly,"  I  said, 
demurely,  "and  if  they  prove  too  boisterous  I  can  come 
to  thee.  Prythee  let  me  do  it,  dame.  I  have  heard 
so  much  of  the  players  and  have  never  seen  them." 

Somewhat  reluctantly  she  promised,  and  my  heart 
leaped  with  delight.  Another  part  of  my  self-imposed 
task  was  accomplished. 

A  few  hours  later,  loud  shouting  and  the  blare  of 
trumpets  heralded  the  arrival  of  the  players.  The 
whole  town  turned  out  to  welcome  them,  and  amid  a 
storm  of  huzzas,  greetings  and  jests  they  rode  into 
Stratford,  and  alighted  at  the  door  of  the  inn. 

When  they  had  actually  arrived,  I  was  seized  for 
an  instant  with  a  perfect  agony  of  apprehension.  There 
seemed  to  be  so  many  of  them;  they  were  so  big  and 
boisterous.  How  could  I  ever  carry  out  my  plan? 

Dame  Quickly's  voice  calling  me  brought  me  back 
to  my  senses.  I  thought  of  Will  and  grew  strong.  I 
went  to  obey  the  summons,  and  found  that  my  duties 
were  to  begin  at  once,  since  the  players  had  arrived 
ravenous.  Dame  Quickly  had  put  them  into  a  room 

79 


by  themselves,  with  one  huge  table  for  them  all,  and 
she  bade  me  hasten,  since  they  were  impatient  for  their 
wine. 

As  I  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  room  an  in- 
stant, gathering  up  my  courage  for  an  entrance,  I 
heard  a  melodious  voice  within  carolling  out  a  catch 
which  the  others  were  interrupting  without  the  least 
ceremony : 

"Which  is  the  happiest  day  to  drink?" 

sang  forth  the  mellow  tones. 

"How  can  I  name  one  day?" 

roared  the  chorus. 

"Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday, 
Saturday,  Sunday,  Monday!" 

shouted  the  whole  noisy  company. 

I  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered.  To  my  aston- 
ishment and  confusion,  at  my  appearance  instant  silence 
fell.  I  almost  dropped  the  cups  I  held,  in  my  embar- 
rassment. 

"Hebe,  and  no  other,"  cried  the  same  rich,  careless 
so 


voice  that  had  been  singing.  "By  St.  George,  where 
gat  the  little  town  this  daughter  of  the  gods?" 

"Hist,  Marlowe,"  interposed  a  gentler  voice.  "The 
maid  is  modest,  and  thou  dost  trouble  her." 

"Modest,  and  a  tavern  wench!"  cried  a  coarser 
player,  who  sat  near  the  door.  "Impossible!  Come 
and  kiss  me,  pretty  sweeting!" 

"Nay,"  called  the  one  who  had  spoken  in  my  favor; 
"nay,  let  be,  Kyd.  Prythee  bring  the  cups  hither,  mis- 
tress, an  it  please  thee." 

The  tone  was  deferential,  yet  gently  admonitory. 

I  ventured  to  raise  my  eyes,  as  I  obeyed.  The 
speaker  I  recognized  instantly,  although  he  was  some 
years  older  than  when  I  had  seen  him,  a  lad  in  Strat- 
ford streets.  'Twas  Dick  Burbadge,  who  had  been  my 
champion.  He  beckoned  to  me  to  bring  the  cups,  and 
as  I  obediently  set  them  before  him,  he  murmured  so 
that  none  could  hear:  "I  know  not  who  thou  art;  but 
this  is  no  place  for  a  modest  maid,  and  such  thou 
seemest.  Ask  Dame  Quickly  to  send  another  in  thy 
place." 

Now  was  my  chance,  or  never.  I  answered,  breath- 
lessly and  low,  "I  have  a  reason  for  being  here.  Let 
me  speak  with  thee  privately." 

81 


He  glanced  at  me,  surprised,  but  my  strong  desire 
must  have  shown  in  my  face,  for  he  nodded  almost  on 
the  instant. 

"Be  it  so.  I  will  watch  for  an  opportunity.  Go 
hence  now." 

"Take  that,  Kit  Marlowe!"  suddenly  cried  a  shrill, 
angry  voice  that  I  had  not  heard  as  yet;  and  the 
speaker,  a  slender,  petulant-looking  youth,  followed 
his  speech  by  a  box  on  Marlowe's  ear.  "Why  wilt 
thou  treat  me  like  a  fool?  I  am  no  woman,  in  sooth, 
though  I  may  act  a  woman's  part." 

"How  now!  What  is  the  dispute?"  asked  Bur- 
badge,  who  seemed  to  be  peacemaker  in  general  for 
the  company. 

"Nay,"  drawled  Marlowe  in  his  rich,  lazy  voice, 
"I  did  but  beg  my  lady  here  to  press  her  lips  upon 
the  cup  ere  I  drank  from  it.  As  Ben  Jonson  hath  it: 

"Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 

"I'm  practising  for  the  play,  Dick,  that  is  all." 
The  youth  he  was  teasing  gave  an  angry  flounce. 


"Robin,  Robin  Greene,  dost  not  know  Kit  by  this 
time?"  said  Burbadge,  his  grave  face  relaxing  into  a 
smile. 

"I  care  not,"  replied  Greene,  still  petulantly.  "He 
shall  not  flout  me,  as  if  I  were  no  man.  I  am  slender, 
indeed,  and  my  beard  is  scant;  yet  I  can  drink  any  one 
of  you  under  the  table,  I'll  wager  my  purse." 

"Ay,  I  warrant,"  said  Burbadge,  with  something 
like  a  sigh.  "Were  Jonson  here,  he'd  have  a  classical 
allusion  to  illustrate  that  same  wager  of  thine." 

"Which  is  the  happiest  day  to  drink?" 

carolled  Marlowe  again,  winking  at  Greene  insolently; 
and  under  cover  of  the  vociferous  chorus  that  followed 
I  made  my  exit. 

I  went  and  told  Dame  Quickly  that  I  found  the 
company  e'en  too  boisterous  for  my  taste,  whereat  she 
nodded  her  head  wisely  and  sent  her  homeliest  maid 
in  my  place.  I  followed  her  as  far  as  the  door  and 
stood  there  quaking,  wondering  if  Burbadge  could  and 
would  keep  his  promise.  The  instant  red-cheeked 
Sukey  entered  the  room  I  heard  an  uproar  of  voices, 
then  a  crash  of  breaking  glass,  followed  by  her  un- 
ceremonious exit  in  tears.  The  next  instant  Burbadge 

83 


came  out,  also.  As  he  did  so  the  noise  within  sub- 
sided. 

"They  will  have  none  but  thee,"  he  said,  hurriedly, 
breathlessly.  "They  refused  to  let  the  other  wench 
wait  upon  them.  They  threw  the  china  on  the  floor 
in  anger.  Thou  must  e'en  come,  I  fear;  but  I  will  see 
that  thou  dost  not  meet  with  insult.  First,  however, 
what  dost  thou  want  with  me?  I  said  I  would  find 
and  bring  thee.  I  did  so  that  I  might  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  with  thee  privately,  as  thou  didst 
desire." 

"Oh,  sir,"  I  began,  hurriedly,  clasping  my  hands 
in  passionate  entreaty,  "  'tis  about  Will  Shakespeare." 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance. 

"My  right  good  friend!  I  wondered  why  I  did 
not  see  him  as  we  came  through  the  town.  What  of 
him?" 

Then,  rapidly,  beseechingly,  I  told  of  his  imprison- 
ment and  its  cause;  spoke  also  of  Will's  intention  of 
joining  the  players  when  they  came;  then  reached  the 
point  of  my  story. 

"And  now,  wilt  thou  not  free  him?"  I  cried,  the 
tears  springing  to  my  eyes  unbidden,  as  I  caught 
Master  Burbadge's  hand.  "Ye  are  many,  and  the  gaol 


health  fo  —  §fi  hahgspeare?) 

{freedom!  ond  — j^i  hates] 

tWef hearfl  I 


wfll  be  deserted  to-morrow  while  the  town  is  at  the 
play.  I  will  show  you  where  the  prison  is.  Will  not 
some  of  you  go  and  free  him?  Then  he  will  to  London 
with  you,  and  when  he  comes  back — ah,  then  the  prank 
that  made  him  captive  may  be  forgotten  or  forgiven. 

0  Master  Burbadge,  thou  art  his  friend !    Set  him  free, 
prythee  set  him  free.'* 

He  looked  at  me  in  deep  thought  for  an  instant. 

"Tis  possible,  I  think/*  he  said  at  last,  and  for 
very  joy  at  the  words  I  bent  and  kissed  his  hand;  "but 
no  one  must  know  of  our  plan  save  ourselves/'  He 
paused  and  looked  at  me  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had 
struck  him.  "Come,**  he  said,  and  motioned  to  the 
room  he  had  just  left;  "come.  Thou  thyself  wilt  be 
thine  own  best  advocate." 

With  no  thought  save  of  Will,  I  followed  him. 
The  players  set  up  a  shout  of  joy  at  my  entrance,  but 

1  heard  them  not;  nor  did  I  heed  the  amorous  glances 
that  some  cast  at  me.     Burbadge  raised  his  hand  to 
commsnci  sii.cn.cc. 

"This  maid  hath  a  tale  to  tell  us,  my  masters,"  he 
said.  "Prythee  listen  well." 

Then,  quickly  and  to  the  best  of  my  power,  I  told 
my  story  once  again.  The  players  were  most  appre- 


ciative  listeners.  They  roared  with  laughter  at  the  plot 
against  Sir  Thomas,  and  their  faces  grew  sober  as  they 
heard  of  Will's  overthrow.  Most  of  them  knew  him 
or  knew  of  him,  for  many  belonged  to  Stratford  or  its 
neighborhood;  and  then,  he  had  always  taken  a  warm 
interest  in  the  players  and  their  work.  When,  at 
length,  my  tale  was  ended  and  my  plan  to  free  Will 
was  revealed,  one  of  the  actors  I  had  not  noticed  be- 
fore sprang  upon  the  table,  a  cup  of  wine  in  his  hand. 

"Down  with  the  Puritans!"  he  cried  in  a  whining, 
nasal  voice  irresistibly  comic.  "To  the  rescue  of  gal- 
lant Will  and  his  comrades." 

"If  thou  shoutest  out  thy  opinions  in  that  fashion, 
Will  Kempe,  thou  wilt  join  Shakespeare  and  his  friends, 
instead  of  going  to  their  rescue,"  observed  Greene. 
"Play  not  the  clown  now.  'Tis  not  the  time  nor  place !" 

"Nay,  chide  not  honest  Kempe,"  said  Burbadge, 
kindly,  as  Kempe,  looking  somewhat  abashed,  got 
down  from  the  table.  "He  voices  all  our  thoughts,  I 
know.  What  say  you,  comrades?  Shall  we  rescue 
Will  and  take  him  with  us  to  London?" 

"Ay,"  they  all  shouted,  heartily,  even  Greene; 
while  Marlowe,  leaping  to  his  feet,  raised  his  glass  in 
his  hand  as  Kempe  had  done. 


"A  health,"  he  cried,  his  handsome,  insolent  eyes 
fixed  full  upon  me,  a  mocking  smile  upon  his  lips,  "a 
health  to — Shakespeare's  freedom,  and — Shakespeare's 
sweetheart!" 


llhaprerl  1\/1I] 


freakmaj  thelQ(5cRs> 


The  Stratford  streets 
were  deserted  next  day,  as 
I  passed  hurriedly  along 
them  on  my  way  to  the 
gaol.  The  play  was  pro- 
gressing in  the  inn-yard,  and 
all  the  town,  apparently,  had  gone  thither. 

Here  and  there  an  old  grandsire  nodded  in  the 
sun;  and  occasionally  I  saw  a  young  mother  standing 
in  a  doorway,  her  baby  in  her  arms.  Otherwise,  all 
the  town,  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  had  gone  to 
the  play. 

We  had  counted  on  this  condition  of  affairs,  the 
players  and  I,  when  we  had  made  our  plans  the  day 
before.  It  cheered  me  now  to  see  how  aptly  circum- 
stances were  falling  in  with  our  schemes.  In  less  than 
a  half-hour,  should  all  go  well,  Will  would  be  free. 

The  glad  thought  put  a  spring  into  my  step,  and 
I  gave  a  low,  happy  laugh.  At  the  same  moment  I 
looked  up  and  found  that  I  was  passing  Will's  home, 
and  that  Mistress  Shakespeare  was  standing  by  the 
window. 

91 


When  I  had  seen  her  last  she  had  carried  herself 
in  stately  wise,  and  had  looked  at  me  with  scorn  and 
abhorrence.  Now  she  did  not  see  me,  and  her  whole 
figure  was  drooping,  as  she  leaned  against  the  open 
window.  One  arm  was  curved  listlessly  above  her 
head,  the  other  rested  carelessly  on  the  sill.  Her  beau- 
tiful, hazel  eyes,  so  like  Will's,  were  wide  and  sad. 
Her  exquisite,  disdainful  face  looked  pale  and  drawn. 

My  heart  smote  me  at  sight  of  her,  so  lovely  and 
so  sorrowful.  Alas !  what  was  I,  to  come  between  such 
a  mother  and  such  a  son?  Will  was  like  her  in  stately 
figure  and  clear-cut  features,  and  I  could  imagine  how 
dearly  they  had  loved  each  other.  As  I  saw  her  droop- 
ing form,  her  sorrowful  face,  I  paused  involuntarily, 
and  she  glanced  up  and  saw  me.  Instantly  her  expres- 
sion hardened,  and  she  drew  herself  erect. 

All  my  impulse  of  pity  vanished.  I  looked  at  her 
proudly,  also.  For  one  instant,  without  speaking,  we 
faced  each  other  thus  —  Shakespeare's  mother  and 
Shakespeare's  sweetheart.  It  was  the  indication  of 
our  lifelong  attitude.  Then  she  vanished  from  the 
window,  and  I  went  on  down  the  street  with  even, 
leisurely  steps,  my  head  still  high  in  the  air.  A  few 
moments  later  I  reached  the  gaol. 

92 


It  took  hard  knocking  to  arouse  the  custodian,  and 
when  he  at  length  admitted  me,  he  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  sleeping. 

He  was  grumbling  to  himself  about  his  hard  fate. 
Other  men,  he  muttered,  could  go  to  the  play;  but  he 
must  remain  to  watch  these  lazy  varlets  who  were  in 
his  charge. 

"Well,  here  is  consolation,"  I  said,  after  sympa- 
thizing with  his  complaint.  "Dame  Quickly,  of  the  inn, 
was  once  servant  to  the  Shakespeares  in  their  better 
days,  and  she  sends  a  pasty  to  Master  Will.  She  bade 
me  also  give  this  one  to  thee,  if  thou  wouldst  let  me 
take  his  to  him."  This  speech  was  a  skillful  mixture 
of  fiction  and  fact.  Dame  Quickly  had,  indeed,  been 
servant  to  the  Shakespeares,  but  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  present  plan. 

He  leered  at  me  sleepily.  "And  why  art  thou  mes- 
senger, pretty  Nan?"  he  said,  in  what  was  intended  for 
a  fascinating  manner. 

I  lowered  my  lashes  as  if  it  were  indeed  irresist- 
ible, and  answered  demurely: 

"I  am  maid  at  the  inn  for  the  nonce,  and  Mistress 
Quickly  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  she  trusted  me." 

"Curse  me,  then,"  he  cried,  growing  even  more 

93 


sentimental,  "but  thou  shalt  do  as  she  desires,  and  I 
will  trust  thee,  too,  on  one  condition.  I  will  allow 
thee  to  take  the  pasty  up  to  Will,  if  first  thou  wilt  let 
me  give  thee  a  kiss;"  and  he  leered  at  me  again. 

I  hesitated,  my  face  aflame.  Then  I  laughed  dep- 
recatingly. 

"Why  shouldst  thou  care  to  buss  me,  Master?"  I 
said.  "Thou  knowest  me  well  and  hast  seen  me  oft. 
Why  this  sudden  wish  to  touch  my  lips?" 

"Thou  hast  never  seemed  so  fair  before,"  he  an- 
swered, gazing  at  me  amorously;  "and,  besides,  thou 
art  the  only  maid  within  reach.  I'll  have  a  kiss,  I  say, 
or  thou  shalt  not  take  the  pasty  to  Will  Shakespeare." 

His  tone  was  growing  threatening,  and  what  mat- 
tered it,  after  all?  A  kiss  was  but  an  ordinary  inter- 
change of  civilities;  only  I  cared  not  to  have  this  red- 
faced  knave  bring  his  face  so  near  to  mine.  However, 
that  I  should  reach  Will  speedily  was  of  the  greatest 
importance;  and  so,  without  more  ado,  I  lifted  my 
mouth  to  the  gaoler's  and  gave  him  his  desire. 

"Good!"  he  cried,  smacking  his  lips,  after  having 
bestowed  on  me  several  resounding  kisses;  "now  the 
pasty  thou  didst  promise  me,  Gramercy!  Ah!"  and  he 
began  to  bite  into  it.  "Mistress  Quickly 's  hand  hath 

94 


GS]fha_ke  spc  are^l  — .  |S]iv*>c  er  hea  rp) 

not  lost  its  old  cunning.  Here  are  the  keys,  wench. 
I  cannot  leave  this  dainty  dish." 

This  was  more  than  I  had  hoped  for.  I  seized  the 
keys  and  fled  up  the  stairs  precipitately,  leaving  him 
busy  with  the  pasty.  I  did  not  know  in  which  room 
Will  was  confined,  but  I  trusted  to  heaven  to  find  out. 

Meanwhile  the  gaoler  was  devouring,  in  huge 
bites,  the  pasty  which  had  been  drugged  with  a  power- 
ful liquid  provided  by  Master  Burbadge.  The  effect 
of  the  same  would  be  to  put  him  in  a  stupor,  but  it 
would  not  harm  him  further.  So  Master  Burbadge 
assured  me,  or  I  would  not  have  used  it,  even  to  free 
Will  from  his  imprisonment. 

I  ran  along  the  corridor,  calling  Will's  name  as 
loudly  as  I  dared.  Presently  I  heard  his  voice  reply 
in  a  tone  of  great  surprise. 

Fortunately,  the  keys  were  not  many,  and  I  speed- 
ily found  the  one  that  fitted.  Then,  half  laughing,  half 
in  tears,  I  stumbled  into  his  room,  to  be  met  with  a 
cry  of  utter  astonishment  as  he  caught  me  in  his  arms. 

"Nan!"  he  cried.  "Nan!  whence  didst  thou  come? 
What  miracle  is  this?" 

"Oh,  hush !"  I  panted,  laying  my  finger  on  his  lips. 
"Here,  here's  the  pasty.  Thou  must  take  it  with  thee 

95 


to  avert  suspicion  from  me.  I  told  the  players;  they 
are  coming  to  free  thee.  O  Will,  I  had  to  kiss  the 
gaoler  to  get  to  thee.  There,  quick!  Burbadge  will 
explain  all  to  thee  afterwards.  The  door  is  open. 
Come!" 

"But  to  what  end?"  he  began,  obeying  me,  how- 
ever, as  I  urged  him  towards  the  door.  "Sir  Thomas 
Lucy " 

"Thou  wilt  soon  be  far  away  from  him,"  I  an- 
swered, impatiently.  "Come,  come!" 

He  said  no  more,  although  he  was  evidently  mys- 
tified, but  obeyed,  as  I  drew  him  with  me.  We  ran 
lightly  down  the  stairs  together.  The  gaoler  lay  in  a 
stupor,  the  half-eaten  dainty  beside  him.  I  dropped 
the  keys  at  his  feet.  We  passed  swiftly  into  the  air, 
and  there  Master  Burbadge  and  Master  Kempe  were 
waiting  for  us,  according  to  agreement. 

"Welcome,  Will,"  cried  the  latter,  in  a  voice  that 
was  no  less  joyous  because  it  was  in  a  low  key  from 
caution.  "Thank  this  brave  lass  that  thou  art  free. 
Art  ready  to  go  to  London  with  us?  We  start  within 
the  hour,  before  thy  gaoler  shall  awaken." 

"I  am  in  darkness  still,  although  I  have  left  my 
prison,"  answered  Will,  giving  a  hand  to  each  of  the 

96 


players  as  we  began  to  walk  rapidly  away  from  the 
gaol,  "but  I  think  light  is  dawning.  Ay,  Burbadge,  I 

will  to  London  with  thee,  although "  he  hesitated, 

and  glanced  at  me. 

"Fear  not,  Will,"  I  interposed;  "none  knows  of 
my  share  in  thy  escape  save  the  gaoler,  and  methinks 
shame  at  being  outwitted  by  a  wench  will  keep  him 
silent.  Besides,  when  it  is  found  that  thou  art  gone 
with  the  players,  they  will  be  suspected  of  having  set 
thee  free.  Fear  not  for  me.  To  London,  and  god- 
speed!" 

He  stood  still  a  moment  in  deep  thought.  Kempe 
looked  around  uneasily,  but  none  saw  us;  not  a  soul 
was  in  sight. 

"Stay,"  he  said,  suddenly;  "I  would  first — Kempe, 
Burbadge,  are  your  parts  in  the  play  over?" 

"Ay,"  Burbadge  answered;  "the  rest  are  acting 
the  last  scene  now.  We  came  to  do  our  part  in  setting 
thee  free,  but  find  thee  no  longer  a  prisoner.  What 
wouldst  say,  Will?  Speak  quickly,  for  time  presses." 

"How  long  before  thou  dost  start  for  London?" 
said  Will,  who  seemed  curiously  forgetful  of  his  peril- 
ous position  as  escaped  prisoner,  although  he  walked 
on  again  in  obedience  to  Burbadge's  gesture. 

97 


"We  have  planned  to  do  so  within  the  hour;  and 
so  we  must,  if  thou  art  to  go  with  us,  so  that  thy 
escape  may  not  be  discovered  too  soon." 

"Then,"  cried  Will,  the  light  of  a  sudden  resolve 
brightening  his  face;  "I  will  ask  one  boon  further,  com- 
rades. I  will  not  join  you  now,  but  I  will  meet  you 
to-morrow  morn  at  Luddington.  Go  back  to  the  play- 
ers, and  watch  for  me  when  you  reach  that  town.  I 
will  join  you  there  without  fail." 

"But  why?"  began  Burbadge,  expostulatingly. 
"  JTis  foolish,  needless.  Why  not  come  with  us  now? 
I  have  a  cloak  and  a  wig  ready,  which  will  make  thee 
escape  recognition  in  Stratford." 

"Say  what  thou  wilt,"  answered  Will,  obstinately. 
"I  will  join  thee  at  Luddington,  or  nowhere.  Ah,  com- 
rades," and  his  voice  once  more  took  on  its  usual  win- 
ning quality,  "believe  me,  I  am  not  ungrateful.  I  have 
some  business  to  which  I  must  first  attend,  else  I  can- 
not to  London  with  a  free  mind.  Do  as  I  desire,  and 
I  will  meet  you  at  Luddington." 

With  ill  grace  they  consented  at  last  and  took 
their  departure.  Will  seized  my  hand  and  drew  me  in 
the  opposite  direction.  We  had  now  nearly  reached 
the  outskirts  of  Stratford.  "Quick,  Nan,"  he  said,  "go 

98 


•ode  fti^iJffHt  fl*MJ  Richardson.  They  dwell  about  a 
qiiMlrr  of  a  mile  further.  Most  like  they  are  not  at 
the  play,  since  they  are  sober-minded  men.  They  are 
faithful  friends  of  mine,  and  I  think  will  do  what  I 
ask.  Bid  them  come  with  me  at  once  and  we  will  all 
to  Luddington  together." 

"But  why,"  I  began,  in  utter  perplexity,  "why 
wilt  thou  risk  thy  freedom?" 

Then,  indeed,  his  face  relaxed.    He  laughed,  and 


"Dost  not  thou  know,  either?"  he  said,  still  laugh- 
ing. We  were  now  walking  rapidly  out  of  Stratford, 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  the  inn-yard,  and  towards 
the  homes  of  Sandells  and  Richardson.  "Because  I 
would  make  thee  safely  my  wife  before  I  go  to  London, 
sweetheart.  Now,  the  bans  will  not  need  to  be  de- 
clared, if  my  good  friends  will  do  as  I  desire.  I  will 
ask  them  to  become  sureties  on  a  bond  freeing  the 
Bishop  from  liability  in  case  of  lawful  impediment; 
which,  thou  knowest,  does  not  exist.  I  feared  lest 
player's  bond  would  not  suffice  else  would  I  have  asked 
Kempe  and  Burbadge  to  do  me  this  service.  That  is 
why  I  go  to  Luddington,  sweetheart.  There!  yonder 
lies  Sandells's  house,  and  not  for  from  it  is  Richard- 


son's.  Haste  thee,  and  ask  them  if  they  will  do  me 
this  favor.  I  will  go  on,  since  I  dare  not  linger." 

As  in  a  dream,  I  obeyed  him ;  and  as  in  a  dream,  I 
lived  during  the  next  few  hours. 

Master  Sandells  and  Master  Richardson  consented 
to  Will's  request,  and  we  all  made  our  way  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  Luddington.  There,  at  last,  were  spoken 
the  words  that  made  me  Will's  wife.  In  haste  and 
secrecy  our  marriage  took  place,  yet  it  brought  us  none 
the  less  joy. 

The  players  reached  Luddington  that  same  even- 
ing, but  did  not  depart  until  the  following  morning. 
Master  Sandells  and  Master  Richardson  remained,  also, 
that  they  might  take  me  back  to  Shottery. 

In  the  dim,  chill  dawn  of  the  next  day  I  bade  Will 
farewell,  and  watched  him  ride  away  to  London.  All 
the  light  of  my  life  went  with  him.  Then,  in  Master 
Richardson  and  Master  Sandells's  kindly  care,  I  went 
back  to  Shottery,  Will's  wedded  wife  at  last,  the  bride 
of  a  night. 


Glhaprer  (  iVJIll 


Strangely,  unexpectedly, 
my  share  in  Will's  escape 
remained  unknown.  The 
gaoler,  as  I  had  hoped,  was 
ashamed  of  the  way  in  which 
he  had  been  outwitted;  and 

when  it  was  found  that  Will  had  gone  with  the  players, 
the  fellow  did  his  best  to  make  suspicion  point  towards 
them. 

To  do  him  justice,  this  endeavor  may  have  arisen 
also  from  a  desire  to  shield  me.  My  absence  from 
Shottery  that  one  night  was  not  generally  known  until 
years  afterwards;  for  I  reached  home  again  the  next 
morning  before  any  was  astir,  and  Master  Sandells  and 
Master  Richardson  kept  faith.  Altogether,  I  was 
shielded  in  a  way  I  scarce  had  dared  to  expect;  and 
the  months  that  followed  Will's  departure,  although 
dull,  were  not  unhappy.  It  was  for  his  good  that  we 
were  separated.  I  was  his  true  wife.  I  had  his  letters 
to  cheer  me.  What  more  could  I  desire  at  present? 

Sir  Thomas  stormed  and  raged,  indeed,  when  he 
found  that  his  chief  prisoner  had  escaped;  but  public 

103 


sentiment  was  against  him,  and  he  dared  not  go  too 
far.  The  players  were  under  powerful  protection,  and 
he  did  not  wish  to  meet  a  rebuff  in  an  attempt  to  get 
Will  back.  So  gradually  all  became  calm  once  more. 
The  other  lads  were  released,  one  by  one;  and  at  last 
the  deer-stealing  episode  was  almost  forgotten. 

There  followed  then,  after  that  expedition  to  Charl- 
cote  and  the  events  connected  with  it,  a  peaceful, 
monotonous  year.  Will's  letters  often  brightened  it; 
he  came  once  or  twice  to  see  me,  secretly,  since  Sir 
Thomas's  wrath  had  not  then  died  away;  and  before 
its  close  there  was  set  upon  my  brows  the  crown  of  a 
woman's  life. 

My  babe,  Susannah,  was  born.  She  was  a  sturdy 
lass,  with  Will's  chestnut  hair  and  my  dark  eyes,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  a  sweeter,  prettier  infant  never 
lived.  Will's  delight  when  he  heard  of  her  birth  over- 
flowed into  a  letter  so  full  of  the  perfect  bliss  and  pride 
of  fatherhood  that  I  have  long  since  destroyed  it,  deem- 
ing it  too  sacred  to  be  read  by  other  eyes.  He  longed 
to  come  to  the  christening,  but  could  not,  being  de- 
tained in  London;  and  he  did  not  see  the  little  lass  for 
many  weary  months. 

Ah,  how  the  gossips'  tongues  clacked  when  Su- 
104 


sannah  was  born!  Our  marriage  still  remained  secret, 
and  I  think  the  impression  never  quite  died  away  in 
Stratford,  even  after  all  was  known,  that  the  little  lass 
was  a  nameless  child,  as  her  mother  had  been.  For 
me,  I  cared  not.  Safe  in  the  harbor  of  Will's  honor- 
able love,  I  could  wait  to  let  time  justify  us  both. 
Master  Sandells  and  Master  Richardson  came  to  me, 
when  the  gossip  reached  their  ears,  and  asked  me 
whether  they  should  keep  silence  still.  I  answered, 
proudly,  ay,  nor  did  I  ever  regret  it.  I  was  accustomed 
to  averted  glances  and  looks  askance.  They  could  not 
harm  me,  while  I  knew  the  truth.  Will  would  have 
been  vexed  had  he  been  aware  of  the  state  of  affairs; 
but  as  I  alone  was  concerned,  I  chose  to  suit  myself. 
I  was  too  proud  to  offer  justification.  'Twas  a  mistake, 
perhaps,  yet  I  do  not  regret  it,  even  now. 

Meanwhile  Will's  letters  spoke  of  increasing  suc- 
cess, of  growing  popularity,  whereat  my  heart  rejoiced. 
He  had  not  as  yet  written  a  play,  but  he  had  helped 
to  remodel  old  ones,  and  had  acted  in  very  many.  His 
prospects  seemed  fair,  and  I  was  glad.  Soothly,  ay, 
that  year  was  not  unhappy;  in  the  light  of  what  fol- 
lowed it  stands  out  bright  and  blessed. 

And  now,  at  last,  I  come  to  the  place  in  my  story 
105 


g|fchafees£care$3 


where  I  must,  as  it  were,  begin  to  write  with  my  heart's 
blood.  Alack!  alack!  how  anguished  is  e'en  the  mem- 
ory of  that  awful  time!  Yet  it  must  be  told,  to  make 
my  tale  complete.  One  confusion  of  horror  and  per- 
plexity it  is  in  the  recollection;  yet  I  must  e'en  disen- 
tangle the  snarled  threads  and  tell  all  as  it  happened, 
so  far  as  may  be. 

One  fair  autumn  day  I  took  my  little  Susannah 
with  me  into  Stratford.  She  was  now  several  months 
old,  and  an  adorable  babe,  full  of  pretty  pranks  and 
charming  rogueries.  I  had  some  message  to  Mistress 
Quickly  from  my  grandam,  and  I  took  Susannah  with 
me,  partly  because  I  could  never  bear  to  have  her  far 
from  my  sight  and  also  because  she  was  a  favorite 
with  good  Dame  Quickly. 

As  usual,  I  had  a  pleasant  time  with  the  mistress 
at  the  inn,  while  Susannah  was  petted  and  fussed  over 
to  her  heart's  content.  Dame  Quickly  had  been  a  loyal 
friend  to  me  during  the  past  year,  and  this  kindness 
I  had  never  forgotten.  My  business  ended,  at  length, 
I  left  her,  and  my  babe  and  I  went  down  for  a  brief 
stroll  beside  the  willows  on  the  river's  bank  before  re- 
turning to  Shottery.  Susannah  loved  the  sweeping, 
graceful  trees,  and  she  laughed  and  crowed,  and 

106 


ke  sPcareTl 


stretched  her  dimpled  hands  towards  them  in  high 
glee. 

We  were  very  happy.  Only  Will's  presence  was 
needed  to  make  our  happiness  complete.  I  told  my 
babe  so,  talking  to  her  in  the  fond,  foolish  way  that 
mothers  have.  We  were  seated  beside  the  stream  as 
I  said  it,  Susannah  at  play  on  my  knees;  and  as  I 
caught  her  closer  to  my  heart  at  the  thought  of  her 
dear  father,  behold,  I  heard  his  name! 

"Will  Shakespeare!"  said  a  woman's  full,  rich 
voice  in  a  tone  of  contempt.  "Will  Shakespeare!" 

The  words  came  from  a  point  near  by.  I  was 
sitting  close  to  the  bank  of  the  stream,  quite  hidden 
on  each  side  by  the  low,  sweeping  branches  of  the 
willows.  Cautiously  I  crept  back  a  space  and  peeped 
around  the  tree  to  see  who  had  spoken. 

These  were  no  Stratford  folk  who  sat  there  by  the 
Avon,  both  brave  in  sflks  and  jewels.  Upon  the  ground 
the  man  had  spread  his  yellow  satin  cloak,  and  beside 
it  he  half  knelt,  half  reclined.  Upon  this  glowing 
throne  there  sat,  with  regal  air,  the  most  beauteous 
and  the  most  haughty  woman  mine  eyes  have  e'er  be- 
held; soothly,  a  queen  in  seeming. 

I  saw  her  afterwards  many  times;  and  to  my  mem- 


ory  of  her  then  is  doubtless  added  succeeding  recollec- 
tions. Yet  never  was  her  scornful  loveliness  so  vivid 
and  so  perfect  in  my  sight  as  that  first  time  I  beheld  it. 

She  was  very  dark,  gloriously,  ominously  dark. 
Her  raven  hair  was  lustreless,  a  cloudy  background  to 
her  perfect  face.  Deep  blue  were  her  eyes,  of  the  color 
that  grows  black  in  excitement  or  in  passion.  They 
were  almond-shaped,  and  heavily  fringed  with  dark, 
curling  lashes.  Her  nose  was  straight,  with  quivering, 
scornful  nostrils;  and  no  words  of  mine  could  convey 
the  haughty  sweetness  of  that  mouth  like  Cupid's  bow. 

Her  skin  was  clear  and  smooth,  and  I  could  see 
that  the  rich  color  mantling  upon  it  was  due  to  no 
cosmetic.  For  the  rest,  her  figure  was  all  voluptuous, 
sweeping  curves,  set  off  by  the  close-fitting  crimson 
taffeta  she  wore,  and  the  rubies  at  her  throat,  upon  her 
hands. 

Her  companion  I  did  not  note  at  once.  He  was 
in  court  attire,  his  colors  blue  and  gold,  and  he  had 
yellow,  curling  hair  and  a  chestnut  beard.  So  much 
I  saw  in  a  rapid,  fleeting  glance,  and  then  my  eyes 
turned  once  more  in  fascination  to  the  wondrous  face 
beside  him.  As  I  looked,  she  spoke  again,  in  that 
strangely  rich,  melodious  voice. 

1 08 


"Will  Shakespeare!"  she  exclaimed  again,  more 
petulantly  this  time.  "Thou  dost  ring  the  changes  on 
his  name  until  I  am  right  weary  of  the  sound.  Dost 
think  I  would  stoop  to  favor  a  mere  player?" 

Her  companion  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  raised 
his  eyebrows.  Yet  methought  he  looked  at  her  in 
somewhat  anxious  wise. 

"None  may  dare  predict  aught  about  thee,  Count- 
ess," he  said,  half  mockingly,  yet  with  a  singular  def- 
erence. 

She  gave  him  a  side  glance  from  under  her  sweep- 
ing lashes. 

"Nay,  thou  didst  not  foresee,"  she  observed,  with 
a  little  laugh,  "thou  didst  not  foresee  when  thou  didst 
present  Will  Shakespeare  to  me  that  within  one  short 
fortnight  he  would  be  my  slave." 

I  did  not  hear  the  other's  reply  to  that  taunting 
little  speech.  The  words  had  gone  as  a  dagger  to  mine 
own  heart.  I  started  involuntarily,  and  the  babe  Su- 
sannah, in  my  arms,  opened  her  mouth  to  give  a  fright- 
ened cry.  I  laid  my  hand  fiercely  across  her  lips.  At 
that  moment,  rather  than  be  discovered  before  I  heard 
more,  methinks  I  could  have  stilled  forever  her  baby 
breath. 

109 


For  an  instant  pain  and  passion  made  me  blind 
and  deaf  to  all  about  me.  When  I  could  see  and  hear 
again  the  woman  was  speaking. 

"  'For  what  is  life?'  Will  Shakespeare  said  to  me; 
'what  is  life  without  love;  love  such  as  you  can  be- 
stow, madam,  and  only  you?'  Poor  fellow!  He  pleaded 

well,  and  seemed  passion-shaked  indeed.  But  I "  she 

flung  out  her  white  hands  with  a  gesture  of  abandon; 
"I  have  sworn  that  in  love  matters  I  shall  never  be  the 
conquered,  but  the  conqueror!" 

The  man  sighed,  and  for  an  instant  turned  his  face 
thoughtfully  towards  the  gentle  stream  flowing  past  so 
placidly.  Only  for  a  second  stayed  he  so,  however.  No 
man  near  that  face  and  figure  could  gaze  long  else- 
where than  upon  them. 

"Thou  art  playing  with  a  noble  heart,  madam,"  he 
said,  gravely. 

She  laughed;  and  the  sound  was  a  very  ripple  of 
concentrated  scorn. 

"Say'st  thou  so?  Well,  I  know  not,  my  Lord 
William.  Soothly,  methinks  'tis  because  his  name  and 
thine  are  the  same  that  thou  art  so  leal  a  friend  to 
him.  But,"  she  leaned  towards  him  with  an  air  of  mys- 
tery, "but  know'st  thou  what  gossip  I  heard  the  other 


day?  Dame  Rumor  saith  it  that  my  handsome  player 
hath  already  a  sweetheart  here  in  Stratford  town." 

I  did  not  start  again,  but  a  shudder  ran  through 
me.  Who  was  this  woman  who  had  discovered  Will's 
love  and  mine,  and  why  was  she  in  Stratford  now? 

"Kit  Marlowe,  in  his  cups,  betrayed  the  secret," 
the  Countess  went  on,  carelessly.  "Whether  the  tale 
be  true  I  know  not,  but  sooth,  if  it  be  so  " 

She  came  to  a  long  pause,  and  for  the  first  time 
her  wondrous  face  was  in  repose.  She  sat  gazing  at 
the  Avon,  as  he  had  done  a  moment  since,  and  her 
eyes  were  large  and  dark. 

"If  it  be  true,"  she  repeated  presently,  and  as  she 
spoke  her  mocking  expression  returned,  "his  is  no  noble 
soul,  but  that  of  a  false  coward;  for  the  tale  goes 
further,  that  there  is  a  child,  also.  And  after  that,  he 

comes "  she  made  a  gesture  of  contempt  and 

abruptly  changed  her  sentence;  "he  is  as  other  men — 
as  thou  art,  for  example." 

He  started  at  the  words,  and  seized  her  hand  be- 
seechingly. She  made  no  attempt  to  withdraw  it,  but 
let  it  stay  passively  within  his  grasp.  It  was  as  if  she 
felt  so  remote  from  him  in  spirit  that  the  enforced  im- 
prisonment of  her  hand  was  a  matter  of  little  moment. 


"  'As  other  men,'  "  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  hoarse 
with  feeling.  "Nay,  that  am  I  not,  dear  heart ;  beloved ! 
Thou  knowest  that  thy  words  are  untrue.  I  have  no 
desire  to  use  thee  as  the  toy  of  an  idle  hour;  nor  are 
any  of  my  professions  of  dishonorable  intent.  To- 
morrow, to-day,  would  I  wed  thee,  if  thou  wouldst  con- 
sent. Goddess  of  my  idolatry,  saint  of  my  prayers " 

She  interrupted  him  at  this  point  with  another 
short,  scornful  laugh.  Her  hand  she  withdrew  from 
his,  and  patted  him  on  the  cheek  with  a  certain  con- 
tempt. 

"Child,  child,  thrice  a  child,  though  grown  to  man's 
estate!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  voice  full  of  mirth,  yet  me- 
thought  also  with  a  hint  of  pain.  "No  saint  am  I,  nor 
ever  shall  be.  Even  a  fond  man's  blasphemy  cannot 
make  me  so.  Cease  raving,  William,  and  let  us  go  back 
for  the  horses.  My  Lord  of  Leicester  will  miss  our 
presence  at  Kenilworth." 

With  a  face  of  deep  dejection  he  offered  his  hand 
to  assist  her  to  rise.  She  sprang  gracefully  to  her 
feet  without  his  aid,  and  moved  to  depart,  her  lithe, 
supple  figure,  with  its  perfect  curves,  showing  clearly 
against  the  green  of  the  meadow.  He  stooped,  lifted 
the  cloak,  and  threw  it  carelessly  over  his  arm. 


"One  moment,  Countess,"  he  said,  speaking  sud- 
denly, as  if  unable  to  restrain  himself;  "wilt  not  tell 
me  now  why  it  was  thy  whim  to  ride  hither?" 

"Canst  not  guess?"  she  answered,  and  shook  her 
finger  at  him.  "Oh,  stupid  man !  Being  so  near,  I  was 
curious  to  behold  what  kind  of  town  it  was  in  which 
thy  paragon  was  reared,  and  moreover — well,  I  wish 
to  find  out  whether  Kit  Marlowe's  tale  be  very  sooth, 
and  whether  thine  idol  may  still  remain  on  his  pedestal. 
Come,  let  us  to  the  inn.  The  dame  there  seems  a  gar- 
rulous mistress.  We  can  find  out  from  her  what  we 
desire  to  know." 

"Why  dost  wish  to  find  out?"  he  said,  doggedly, 
still  not  moving;  and  my  own  heart  echoed  his  ques- 
tion. 

Again  she  gave  him  that  dangerous  side  glance 
from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"That,  my  lord,"  she  observed,  with  a  touch  of 
hauteur,  "that  concerns  me  alone.  Wilt  go  to  the  inn 
with  me?  If  not,  I  will  seek  it  myself;"  and  again  she 
moved  a  pace  or  two. 

He  followed  her,  of  course,  and  they  walked  slowly 
away,  without  either  having  discovered  my  presence. 
I  watched  them  until  the  last  glimpse  of  blue  and 

"3 


crimson  had  vanished  from  my  sight.  Then  I  turned, 
and,  clutching  my  child  to  my  breast,  gazed  out  tragic- 
ally at  the  placid  Avon.  Susannah  had  fallen  asleep. 
How  long  I  stood  thus,  what  mad  thoughts  of  a  swift 
death  beneath  the  smiling  water  tormented  me  I  can 
scarce  say.  My  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  My  next  clear 
recollection  is  of  sinking  to  the  ground  and  bursting 
into  a  passion  of  tears.  My  child  awoke  and  cried,  also, 
and  so  we  crouched  and  sobbed  there  by  the  willows, 
a  forlorn  pair  enough,  while  the  autumn  leaves  fell 
softly  about  us. 

Heedless  of  the  flight  of  time  in  my  dumb  misery, 
I  know  not  how  long  it  was  before  I  saw  the  twilight 
beginning  to  descend.  I  welcomed  the  darkness  as  a 
friend.  A  few  hours  since  I  would  have  dreaded 
traversing  the  road  to  Shottery  alone  at  night.  Now 
the  dusk  would  serve  as  a  mask  to  screen  my  distress 
from  curious  eyes. 

By  this  time  the  haughty  Countess  and  her  attend- 
ant knight  would  have  satisfied  their  curiosity.  They 
would  know  me  for  what  I  was,  forlorn  and  deserted. 
My  tears  were  gone  now.  I  was  past  weeping.  With 
a  long  sigh  I  lifted  Susannah  to  my  bosom. 

"Come,  Sue,  come  little  one,"  I  said,  aloud;  and 
114 


wearily  I  noted  the  dull  sadness  of  my  voice;  "we  must 
home  to  grandam,  our  only  friend  now,  sweeting,  our 
only  friend.  Thy  father  is  dead,  my  baby;  dead,  and 
he  never  saw  thee;  and  thy  mother's  heart  is  broken, 
little  lover 


inaprer ( 


Slowly  and  painfully  I 
walked  back  to  Shottery 
that  evening,  holding  my 
fretful  babe  to  my  bosom. 
I  met  no  one  as  I  went,  but 
at  the  door  of  the  cottage 
my  grandam  stood,  anxiously  awaiting  me.  I  remem- 
ber her  shocked  exclamation  when  she  saw  my  face  in 
the  light,  and  I  recollect  how  I  put  Susannah  into  her 
arms  with  a  smile  which  must  have  been  ghastly,  in- 
deed, and  said: 

"She  is  thine,  now,  grandam.  Poor  little  orphan! 
Her  father  and  mother  are  dead!" 

And  at  that  the  color  fled  from  my  face,  and  I 
dropped  prone  across  the  threshold. 

With  that  swoon  a  long  blank  in  my  memory  be- 
gins. This  part  of  my  story  must  be  written  entirely 
from  what  my  grandam  and  others  have  told  me  since. 
I  recollect  nothing  from  the  time  I  dropped  unconscious 
on  the  floor  of  our  cottage  until  a  later  day,  months 
afterwards,  of  which  I  shall  speak  in  due  course. 

My  grandam,  in  alarm  and  perplexity,  strove  at 
119 


once  to  restore  me;  but  the  attempt  was  vain  for  some 
time.  The  babe  was  wailing  piteously  from  fright  and 
hunger,  and  my  grandam  at  length  turned  her  atten- 
tion to  Susannah,  soothed  her  with  difficulty,  and  at 
last  laid  her  to  rest.  When  my  grandam  returned  she 
was  surprised  to  find  me  risen  to  a  sitting  position. 

"So  thou  art  better,  Nan,"  she  said,  in  a  relieved 
way,  as  she  hastened  towards  me.  I  turned  and  looked 
at  her  with  blank,  unseeing  eyes. 

"Better?"  I  repeated,  in  a  toneless  voice.  "Nay, 
I  shall  never  be  better.  My  heart  is  broken,  grandam, 

broken,  I  tell  thee "  I  leaned  towards  her,  coax- 

ingly,  and  caught  her  hands  in  mine. 

"Send  word  to  Will,  and  he'll  come,"  I  whispered. 
"He  will  come  and  cure  me."  Then  a  sudden  convul- 
sion crossed  my  face  and  I  flung  her  hands  away. 
"Nay,  nay!"  I  cried,  wildly.  "I  had  forgot.  He  will 
never  come  again;  no,  no,  no,  never  again!"  and  with 
tears  in  mine  eyes  I  crooned  a  snatch  of  an  old  country 

song: 

"Will  he  not  come  again, 
Will  he  not  come  again? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead; 
Gone  to  his  death-bed; 
He  never  will  come  again !" 


My  grandam  stood  an  instant  in  stony  silence, 
while  I  rocked  and  muttered  before  the  fire.  Past  and 
present  seemed  to  meet  as  she  gazed  at  me.  Often  had 
she  seen  my  mother  thus,  gloomy  and  distraught.  Was 
the  long  nightmare  of  her  life  to  be  repeated  in  her 
child? 

"Nay,  Nan,"  she  said  at  length,  coaxingly;  "nay, 
Nan,  thou  art  mistaken.  He  will  come  again  surely, 
lass,  and  bring  joy  to  thee  and  me.  To  bed  now. 
Little  Sue  is  already  sleeping." 

She  attempted  to  lift  me ;  but  I  withstood  her,  pet- 
tishly. "Let  be,  let  be,"  I  muttered,  gazing  into  the  fire 
and  pointing  to  the  red  embers.  "I  am  watching  the 
autumn  leaves.  Once  they  were  green,  and  tender  and 
young.  It  was  May  then.  What  comes  in  May?  Ah, 
yes,  I  remember;  it  is  love! 

"  'It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass, 

Sing  hey  and  ho,  and  ho  nonnino! 
And  through  the  green  fields  they  did  pass, 
In  the  spring  time ' 

"But  'tis  autumn.  Crimson  are  they,  those  leaves, 
like  the  blood  of  my  heart.  My  heart  is  broken  and  I 
am  dead.  Why  am  I  not  buried,  grandam?" 


"Thou  dreamest,  Nan,"  said  my  grandam,  but  her 
voice  was  hopeless. 

"Ah,  I  know,"  I  murmured,  wisely,  nodding  at  the 
fire.  "  "Tis  because  there  are  no  violets.  I  must  have 
violets  upon  my  grave.  Canst  not  get  me  some, 
grandam?  Then  I  could  rest;  and  I  am  tired,  oh,  so 
tired!"  I  moved  my  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side, 
and  moaned. 

"Child,  they  are  all  withered,"  my  grandam  an- 
swered, attempting  to  humor  my  fancy. 

"Ay,  I  know,"  I  answered,  instantly.  "  'Twas 
when  Will  died  that  they  withered,  was't  not?  Me- 
thinks  he  died  in  autumn;  I  cannot  remember 

"  'They  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier, 
And  on  his  grave  rained  many  a  tear.' 

"Nay,  I  cannot  remember — I  must  be  patient. 
"  'It  is  my  lady !  oh,  it  is  my  love !' 

"So  spake  he,  but  I  bade  him  swear  not  by  the 
moon,  because  it  changes  oft.  He  must  have  done  so, 
after  all.  And  yet 

"  'Bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy !' 


"Nay,  that  is  wrong.  Robin  is  not  the  name.  'Tis 
—'tis— ah,  yes!  I  know;  'tis  Will!" 

With  that  I  sprang  up  suddenly,  with  a  joyous 
laugh,  and  went  to  the  door.  My  grandam  interposed 
before  I  could  open  it. 

"Where  art  going,  lass?"  she  said,  soothingly. 
"  Tis  late,  dear  maid." 

"Will  comes  late,"  I  answered,  with  a  happy  smile. 
"The  world  does  not  know  yet,  but  he  is  mine.  The 
moon  has  risen.  He  will  be  here  soon.  Let  me  go, 
grandam.  I  must  to  the  gate  to  meet  him.  Let  me  go, 
I  say !"  I  narrowed  my  eyes  and  looked  at  her  in  threat- 
ening wise.  She  deemed  it  best  to  give  me  my  way, 
and  stood  aside.  I  flung  wide  the  door  and  looked  out. 

The  beauteous  afternoon  had  ended  in  a  dreary 
night.  Rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  The  sky  was  pitchy 
dark.  The  path  to  the  gate  was  strewn  thick  with 
autumn  leaves.  A  dreary  wind  was  howling. 

For  an  instant  I  stood  gazing  at  the  dismal  scene, 
with  mute  but  increasing  distress.  Then  I  turned  and 
fell  sobbing  into  my  grandam's  arms;  weeping,  I  al- 
lowed her  to  lead  me  to  bed ;  tearfully,  I  let  her  do  with 
me  as  she  would.  And  I  was  tractable  for  the  re- 
mainder of  that  night. 

123 


She  had  some  hope  that  when  morning  came  I 
would  be  restored  to  my  usual  state;  but  it  was  not  so 
to  be.  My  first  waking,  troubled  words  referred  again 
to  Will's  death,  to  faded  violets,  and  to  some  crimson 
horror  which  apparently  preyed  upon  my  mind.  My 
poor  grandam  was  in  dire  perplexity  and  distress  as 
regarded  my  wanderings.  She  had  no  clue  to  the  mys- 
tery. In  the  morning  she  brought  the  babe  Susannah 
to  me,  trusting  that  I  would  be  aroused  at  sight  of 
her.  Instead,  I  looked  at  the  child  with  lack-lustre 
eyes,  although  the  dear  poppet  crowed  and  stretched 
out  her  dimpled  hands  to  me.  Then  suddenly  I  began 
to  weep  again,  and  to  murmur  sorrowful  words  about 
her  orphaned  state. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  a  weary  winter,  the 
most  sorrowful  one  of  my  grandam's  sad  life.  She 
knew  of  absolutely  no  reason  for  my  condition.  I  had 
mentioned  Mistress  Quickly's  name  in  my  wanderings, 
and  my  grandam  went  to  consult  her,  but  was  not  aided 
thereby.  The  cheery  innkeeper  did  not  connect  me 
with  the  fine  visitors  she  had  had.  As  I  learned  long 
afterwards,  the  Countess  and  Lord  William  had  made 
their  inquiries  with  seeming  carelessness,  and  had  not 
dwelt  long  upon  the  subject.  Neither  Mistress  Quickly 

124 


nor  my  grandam  suspected  that  their  presence  in  Strat- 
ford was  responsible  for  my  condition. 

My  grandam  could  neither  read  nor  write;  so  she 
had  no  way  of  letting  Will  know  about  my  state.  Let- 
ters came  from  him  occasionally,  but  they  were  as  a 
sealed  book  to  her.  Afterwards  I  read  these,  and  found 
that  they  gradually  grew  more  wondering  and  in- 
sistent as  to  the  cause  of  my  silence.  He  wrote  that 
he  could  not  well  leave  London  during  the  winter,  but 
when  spring  came  he  would  seek  Stratford  speedily. 
Meanwhile,  why,  why  did  I  not  write? 

Once  or  twice  my  grandam  thought  of  asking 
someone  to  write  to  Will ;  but  she  was  a  proud  woman, 
and  she  felt,  from  what  I  said  in  my  wanderings,  that 
something  must  be  wrong  between  us;  that  he  was,  in 
some  mysterious  way,  partly  responsible  for  my  con- 
dition, and  all  her  old  mistrust  of  him  revived. 

The  poor  babe  felt  the  change  in  her  mother;  and 
from  a  healthy,  happy  child,  turned  into  a  quiet,  pen- 
sive infant.  My  grandam  oft  hath  said  since  that  it 
was  sad  to  see  how  little  Sue  would  sit  and  gaze  at 
me  in  mournful  silence,  as  if  half -comprehending  that 
something  was  wrong.  As  for  me,  I  took  no  notice 
whatever  of  the  babe.  It  was  as  if  she  did  not  exist. 

125 


Wearily,  sadly,  the  months  dragged  away,  until 
at  last  the  spring-time  came.  With  the  violets  for 
which  I  had  longed,  my  healing  seemed  to  begin.  I 
grew  less  gloomy.  I  loved  to  be  out  of  doors,  and  to 
deck  myself  with  flowers.  I  began  to  notice  the  child, 
and  to  play  with  her  a  little.  My  grandam  saw  these 
happy  changes,  and,  almost  unbidden,  hope  sprang  up 
again  in  her  heart. 

The  final  restoration  of  my  wits  came  at  length, 
without  warning.  One  balmy  day  in  early  April  I 
came  in  from  the  fields,  crowned  and  garlanded  with 
flowers.  I  sang  snatches  of  old  songs  and  murmured 
about  the  same  old  themes.  The  next  morning  I  awoke 
myself  again,  the  past  months  a  blank,  the  afternoon 
beneath  the  willows  alone  a  distinct  remembrance. 

Never  did  I  see  my  grandam  so  moved  as  when 
she  found,  that  day,  that  I  was  once  more  myself.  She 
gazed  at  me  a  moment,  I  remember,  with  incredulous 
joy.  Then  as  I  made  some  sensible  remarks  about  the 
babe  at  play  near  by,  she  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"Anne,  Anne,"  she  cried,  coming  close  to  me  and 
looking  yearningly  into  my  face;  "is  it  truly  thou  thy- 
self once  more?"  And  then  she  checked  her  words,  as 
I  gazed  at  her  in  amazement. 

126 


"Why  not,  dear  grandam?"  I  said,  wonderingly, 
looking  at  her  with  inquiring  glance.  "Ah!"  and  my 
face  clouded;  "thou  meanest  that  conversation  that  so 
troubled  me.  Sooth,  it  brought  me  much  sadness;  but 

I  have  thought  it  over,  and  meseems  that  perhaps 

Well,  we  will  talk  later  about  that.  Where  is  the  babe? 
Come  hither,  sweet,  and  kiss  thy  mother." 

A  short  time  after,  I  told  her,  apparently  with 
little  emotion,  of  the  words  I  had  overheard  by  the 
willows  that  autumn  day.  To  my  listener  it  made 
many  more  things  clear  than  I  quite  understood  then. 
I  remember  still  the  anxious  feeling  I  had  while  nar- 
rating the  incident.  It  was  as  if  what  I  told  was  about 
some  other  person,  for  whom  I  felt  sorry.  When  I 
had  finished,  I  added,  in  a  business-like  way: 

"It  would  not  be  fair  to  Will,  I  have  concluded, 
to  take  their  word,  without  having  seen  with  mine  own 
eyes  whether  they  spoke  truth.  I  will  to  London  and 
find  out  for  myself." 

My  grandam  stared  at  me  aghast.  I  spoke  as  air- 
ily as  if  going  to  London  were  as  easy  an  affair  as 
walking  into  Stratford.  She  did  not  venture  to  cross 
me,  however;  but,  hoping  to  divert  my  attention  from 
the  idea  I  had  just  expressed,  she  brought  out  Will's 

127 


letters  and  gave  them  to  me  without  comment.  Her 
wish  was  that  my  desire  to  go  to  him  would  vanish 
when  I  had  learned  the  contents  of  the  letters;  but 
she  was  disappointed. 

I  opened  the  epistles  and  read  them  calmly.  They 
did  not  arouse  any  wonder  in  my  mind;  why,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  understand.  I  was  not  impressed 
by  the  number  of  the  letters,  nor  by  the  change  in  tone 
of  their  contents.  The  first  few  were  simply  narratives 
of  events;  but  as  time  had  gone  on,  and  he  had  still 
not  heard  from  me,  the  spirit  of  the  epistles  had  grown 
first  wondering,  then  reproachful.  The  last  one  vowed 
that  if  I  did  not  write  within  a  month  he  would  run 
down  to  Stratford  to  find  the  cause  of  my  long  silence. 
He  added  that  he  had  been  sore  distressed  throughout 
the  winter,  owing  to  the  lack  of  news  from  Shottery; 
but  his  business  had  held  him  close  in  London. 

I  pondered  over  this  last  letter  with  something  like 
a  sneer.  If,  indeed,  the  words  of  the  Countess  were 
true,  his  duties  had  soothly  held  him  close  in  London; 

and  if  so I  went  to  the  window  and  locked  out. 

Beyond  I  saw  the  fair  familiar  scene  in  its  spring  fresh- 
ness and  beauty.  When  I  had  gazed  thence  last,  con- 
sciously, it  had  lain  in  autumn  desolation. 

128 


"It  is  spring,"  I  said,  turning  at  last  to  my 
grandam,  with  a  sudden  smile;  "spring,  and  the  roads 
are  open.  Within  a  fortnight  I  ride  to  London, 
grandam." 

"But,  lass,"  she  answered,  cautiously,  scarce  know- 
ing what  to  say,  "I  fear  me  that  thou  canst  not.  The 
way  to  London  is  long  and  hard.  For  a  man,  even, 
'tis  difficult;  for  a  woman,  impossible." 

I  broke  into  light  laughter,  ran  over  to  her  and 
threw  both  my  arms  around  her  neck.  She  stared  at 
me  uneasily.  Such  demonstration  was  new  on  my  part. 

"Ay,"  I  cried,  gayly;  "ay,  thou'rt  right.  Impos- 
sible for  a  woman,  thou  say'st  sooth;  but  for  a  man, 

grandam ;  even  a  young  one ;  a  mere  boy "  I  paused 

and  smiled  at  her  in  mocking,  suggestive  fashion. 

"Nan,  what  mean'st  thou?"  said  my  grandam, 
startled  into  sternness.  She  feared  that  my  wits  had 
once  more  gone  wandering;  and  I  am  not  sure  now 
but  that  they  were;  "what  mean'st  thou,  lass?" 

I  laughed  again,  and  leaned  my  cheek  against  hers. 

"A  doublet  and  hose,  a  cloak,"  I  whispered;  "these 
would  transform  any  woman.  Moreover,  dyed  hair, 
and  skin  stained  dark — dost  think  e'en  a  lover  would 
know  his  mistress  thus,  much  less  a  husband — faith- 

129 


less  perchance?"  My  face  grew  dark  for  an  instant, 
then  lighted  with  laughter  again. 

"Ay,  for  a  woman  'tis  nigh  impossible  to  travel 
to  London;  but  for  a  boy,  e'en  one  so  slight  as  I — 
what  think'st  thou,  grandam?" 

I  released  her  and  laughed  again.  Then  I  stuck 
my  hand  upon  my  hip  in  jaunty  boyish  fashion,  and 
strode  up  and  down  the  room,  humming  an  air  in 
braggadocio- wise. 

My  grandam  sat  gazing  at  me  helplessly.  She 
knew  my  meaning  now.  Madder  than  ever  was  I,  she 
had  no  doubt;  and  yet  how  dared  she  cross  me? 


QltiaprerJ 


A  fortnight  later,  as  I 
had  planned,  I  joined  a 
party  at  a  near-by  town 
and  started  out  for  London. 
My  grandam  had  yielded 
to  me  in  sheer  despair. 
Soothly,  I  think  she  deemed 
my  wits  still  wandering. 
Belike,  they  were,  after  a  fashion. 

Looking  back,  methinks  'twas  the  last  remnant  of 
my  maftnv*ai  that  made  me  so  bold  to  devise,  so  deter- 
mined in  execution.  Many  of  the  players  had  seen  me 
before,  and  this  made  recognition  possible.  Therefore, 
I  stained  my  skin  and  dyed  my  close-cropped  hair. 
The  male  attire  was  a  difficulty,  but  my  grandam 
measured  me  and  took  the  items  to  a  tailor  in  a  town 
near  by.  The  suit  he  sent  home  fitted  me  ill,  but  served 
my  purpose.  Should  any  ask  the  cause  of  my  absence, 
in  Stratford  or  in  Shottery,  my  grandam  was  to  say 
that  I  had  gone  to  spend  some  time  with  a  cousin  in 
a  distant  town.  She  trusted,  so  she  was  to  add,  that 
change  of  air  and  scene  would  restore  my  bewildered 


With  what  dire  misgivings,  with  how  foreboding 
133 


a  heart,  my  grandam  saw  me  begin  that  journey  to 
London  I  can  only  partly  conjecture.  It  was  in  the 
early  dawn  that  I  left  the  cottage  door,  with  never  a 
glance  backward  at  her  standing  with  the  babe  in  the 
doorway.  I  seemed  to  be  possessed  with  but  one 
thought,  to  go  to  London  and  to  Will,  and  learn 
whether  the  tale  I  had  heard  were  calumny  or  truth. 
I  had  no  place  in  my  mind  for  any  other  person  or  idea. 
That  journey  is  not  clear  in  my  remembrance.  It 
presented  fewer  difficulties  than  I  had  expected;  for  I 
was  a  country  lass,  accustomed  to  rough  roads  and 
bluff  companions.  I  was  used  to  walking,  yet  could 
ride,  if  occasion  required.  My  purse  was  not  deep,  but 
it  was  by  no  means  empty.  I  did  not  suffer  hunger 
at  any  time,  nor  extreme  fatigue,  and  I  met  many  kind- 
nesses along  the  way.  I  suppose  I  looked  so  boyish 
and  so  young  that  men  and  women  both  strove  to  treat 
me  gently.  Many  a  good  housewife  gave  me  a  meal 
and  scoffed  at  the  idea  of  payment.  Many  a  pretty 
girl  looked  softly  upon  me  and  offered  me  fruit  or 
flowers,  with  no  recompense  but  a  kiss.  Burly  men, 
thinking  perhaps  of  a  young  son  at  home,  befriended 
me,  also,  while  lads  of  my  own  apparent  age  adopted 
me  as  comrade.  Altogether  my  journey  to  London 


IS]fhakesPcare> 


proved  to  me  that  the  world  was  a  less  cruel  place 
tha  i  I  had  deemed  it  on  that  autumn  afternoon  by  the 
willows. 

At  last,  one  fair  spring  morn,  we  rode  into  London. 
As  we  entered  the  city  the  mists  and  shadows  that  had 
obscured  my  brain  seemed  suddenly  to  clear  away.  It 
was  as  if,  my  goal  attained,  the  thorny  way  that  I  had 
trodden  was  forgot.  Near  the  haven  of  my  desire,  my 
stormy  voyage  thither  dwelt  no  longer  in  my  remem- 
brance. So,  perhaps,  after  life's  trials  and  sorrows,  the 
blessed  feel  who  rest  within  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

Soothly,  like  Paradise,  indeed,  looked  to  me  those 
green  gardens  and  fair  mansions  past  which  I  rode 
that  spring  morning.  The  thought  crossed  my  mind 
that  Will  would  not  have  far  to  go  to  renew  the  re- 
membrances of  his  country  home.  Here,  as  in  Strat- 
ford, on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  were  woods  and 
winding  streams.  Here,  as  there,  rose  homes  quaint 
and  stately,  surrounded  by  beauteous  gardens.  Even 
after  we  entered  London  proper  we  still  saw  many 
green  lawns  and  budding  flowers,  and  heard  the  birds 
singing  joyously  among  the  trees. 

At  length,  after  one  or  two  inquiries  on  my  part, 
I  safely  reached  the  precinct  of  St.  Helen's,  where  I 

135 


ISlffakc  SPC  are; 


knew  Will's  lodgings  lay.  Instinctively,  I  sought  the 
nearest  inn,  thinking  to  ask  there  more  particularly  as 
to  his  accustomed  haunts. 

The  place  was  dark  and  low-ceiled,  and  as  I  en- 
tered it  I  blinked  and  saw  little  until  my  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  subdued  light.  When,  finally,  I  was 
able  to  distinguish  my  surroundings,  I  gave  a  slight 
start.  The  room  was  empty  save  for  one  group  around 
a  table  just  across  from  me.  In  that  cluster  of  faces 
there  were  four  out  of  the  half-dozen  that  I  knew;  one 
of  them  my  heart  leapt  to  behold.  Marlowe  sat  there, 
with  his  handsome,  dissipated  face  and  wild,  sparkling 
eyes.  Burbadge  was  gazing  at  the  others  with  his  ac- 
customed meditative  look.  A  scowl,  as  usual,  spoiled 
Greene's  fair,  boyish  face.  Talking  eagerly,  persua- 
sively, Will  stood  back  of  Marlowe's  chair,  but  his 
voice  was  too  low  for  me  to  catch  his  words. 

The  other  two  members  of  the  group  were  strange 
to  me.  One,  I  was  afterwards  to  learn,  was  Master 
Jonson,  at  that  time  just  beginning  his  career.  He  was 
short  and  rather  stout,  with  a  kindly,  wise  face  that  I 
learned  later  to  love  well.  I  have  said  that  he  was 
stout;  yet  he  appeared  not  so  that  afternoon.  His  bulk 
faded  into  insignificance  because  placed  beside  a  very 

136 


mountain  of  flesh.  To  his  right,  looking  over  the  table, 
sat  a  fellow  so  fat  that  he  filled  the  places  of  three 
ordinary  men.  At  first  sight  he  was  disgusting  in  his 
tremendous  size;  but  there  was  a  droll  expression  in 
his  rubicund  face  which  promised  more  value  in  his 
society  than  his  general  appearance  indicated. 

My  back  was  towards  the  light,  and  although  they 
all  gave  me  a  quick  glance  as  I  entered,  their  gaze  did 
not  rest  on  me  for  any  length  of  time.  With  an  odd 
feeling,  between  relief  and  disappointment  at  their  lack 
of  recognition,  I  found  a  place,  still  carefully  keeping 
my  back  to  the  window,  and  ordered  wine.  The  group 
around  the  table,  having  seen,  apparently,  but  a  slender 
country  lad,  continued  their  conversation  freely. 

Will  went  on  speaking  rapidly  for  a  few  minutes; 
but  I  could  not  understand  what  he  said.  Then  I  heard 
Robin  Greene's  high,  petulant  voice  in  reply. 

"Say  what  thou  wilt,  I'll  not;  and  there's  an  end," 
he  said,  positively  and  disagreeably. 

Will  became  suddenly  silent.  He  possessed  the 
rare  talent  of  knowing  when  words  are  useless.  Mar- 
lowe grimaced  at  Greene  and  gave  an  expressive  shrug. 
Burbadge  looked  troubled,  and  Jonson  meditative.  The 
fat  man  suddenly  broke  the  silence. 

137 


"Think  again,  Robin,  sweet  wag,"  he  said,  and  the 
coaxing  tones  of  his  oily  voice  were  almost  irresistibly 
wheedling.  "  'Tis  always  well  to  oblige  a  friend ;  Will 
is  thy  friend;  therefore " 

"Thy  idea  of  a  friend  is  one  who  pays  the  tavern 
reckoning,  as  Will  hath  done  to-day,"  observed  Bur- 
badge,  somewhat  dryly. 

The  fat  man  looked  at  him  with  gentle  reproach. 

"Well,  so  thou  say'st,"  he  said,  heaving  a  great 
sigh  that  almost  made  the  table  shake;  "thou  say'st — 
it  may  be  true.  God  forgive  ye,  lads,  'tis  your  fault 
if  so  it  be.  Before  I  knew  the  players  I  knew  nothing 
evil." 

He  sighed  again  as  they  gave  a  derisive  shout  of 
laughter;  but  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

"Why,  thou  old  sinner!"  cried  Marlowe,  clapping 
him  on  the  back;  "  'tis  thou  that  leadest  us  astray.  If 
there  be  any  scandal  in  London,  who  hath  it  at  his 
tongue's  end?  Jack!  If  there  be  a  lady  to  serenade, 
or  a  purse  to  steal,  who  is  ready  for  either?  Jack! 
Sooth,  now  I  bethink  me,  thou  didst  escape  hardly  from 
that  last  adventure  of  thine  upon  the  highway."  He 
winked  at  the  others.  "Tell  us  about  it,  Jack." 

The  fat  man  cleared  his  throat  impressively,  and 
138 


a  look  of  extreme  gravity  and  importance  came  upon 
his  face.  The  eyes  of  the  rest  grew  merry,  and  they 
crowded  as  closely  about  him  as  his  bulk  permitted. 

"  'Twas  at  Eastcheap,  one  dark  night,  a  month 
since,"  he  began  with  unction. 

"Methought  'twas  in  Blackfriars  a  year  ago,"  mur- 
mured Marlowe,  with  mock  interest. 

"Nay,  thou  art  mistaken,"  replied  the  fat  man, 
gravely;  "  'twas  as  I  have  stated  but  now." 

"It  boots  not,"  said  Will,  with  extreme  politeness, 
his  eyes  bright  with  amusement.  "Proceed,  Sir  John!" 

"Sir  John!"  exclaimed  the  stout  story-teller  in  a 
gratified  tone.  "Ah,  Will,  good  friend,  thou  art  the 
only  one  who  so  calls  me;  yet  truly  I  deserve  a  title, 
for  I  have  done  valorous  deeds  in  my  time.  Not  the 
first  is  this  I  am  about  to  tell  thee  of.  It  happened 
near  the  theatre,  across  the  river." 

"Nay,  'twas  at  Eastcheap,"  said  Burbadge,  laugh- 
ingly- Jack  gazed  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Thou  must  have  misunderstood  me  strangely,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  of  mild  correction.  "  'Twas  in  Black- 
friars  that  it  chanced " 

"What?"  interrupted  Robin  Greene,  petulantly; 
"that  what  chanced?" 


"This  of  which  I  am  about  to  tell  thee,"  answered 
Sir  John,  imperturbably.  There  was  a  laugh  at  Greene's 
expense,  and  he  subsided,  frowning.  The  fat  man 
paused  to  drink  a  measure  of  wine;  then  continued, 
impressively : 

"By  a  dozen  was  I  beset  that  night,  and  for  two 
hours  together  did  I  engage  with  them.  Eight  times 
was  I  thrust  through  the  doublet,  and  four  through 
the  hose,  my  buckler  cut  through  and  through,  my 
sword  hacked  like  a  hand  saw " 

"Sooth,  no  hero  of  Troy  knew  ever  such  a  com- 
bat," observed  Jonson,  wiping  his  eyes,  which  were 
filled  with  tears  of  laughter. 

"How  didst  thou  live?"  asked  Marlowe,  with  mock 
horror. 

"Heroes  are  not  as  other  men,"  said  Will,  gravely. 
His  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  they  were  fixed  on  Sir 
John.  "Proceed,  proceed!" 

"Ay,"  continued  the  fat  man,  growing  excited  as 
he  went  on,  and  rising  ponderously  to  act  out  his  story ; 
"sixteen,  at  least,  set  upon  me  that  night.  Sixteen, 
said  I?  Nay,  fifty.  Beshrew  me  if  there  were  not  two 
or  three  and  fifty  upon  poor  old  Jack!  Two  of  them 
I  peppered  well;"  he  drew  his  sword  and  flourished 

140 


) 


it  in  the  air;  "thus  I  bore  my  point.  Four  rogues  in 
buckram  then  let  drive  at  me " 

"Two,"  interjected  Greene,  quickly. 

'Tour,  little  Rob,"  returned  Sir  John,  gazing  at 
fiffp  in  a  paternal  manner  that  immediately  reduced 
Greene  to  voiceless  rage.  "All  their  seven  points  I  took 
in  my  target  thus."  He  illustrated  dramatically. 

"Seven?  O  Jack,  Jack!"  cried  Marlowe,  with  a 
roar  of  laughter. 

"Seven,  by  these  hilts,"  replied  Sir  John  in  a  sol- 
emn, offended  tone.  "These  nine  in  buckram  then  be- 
gan to  give  me  ground;  but  seven  of  the  eleven  I 

"Enough!"  cried  Jonson,  laughing  heartily. 
"Homer  and  Virgil  are  quite  surpassed,  and  the  tragic 
heroes  of  Rome  and  Greece  are  as  naught  beside  thee 
and  thy  deeds,  Sir  John." 

Sir  John  bowed  and  smiled,  with  a  look  of  gratified 
vanity. 

"Of  none  of  them  can  it  be  said,"  cried  Greene, 
rudely,  striking  the  sword  out  of  the  fat  man's  hand 
with  a  deft  turn  of  his  own  wrist;  "of  none  of  them 
can  it  be  said  that  they  fought  eleven  buckram  men 
grown  out  of  two!" 


Slfaikc  gpcare?! 


At  the  insulting  words  and  action  the  fat  man's 
face  became  furious.  By  a  dexterous  movement,  sin- 
gular in  one  of  his  size,  he  recovered  his  sword,  and 
with  the  flat  of  it  began  to  belabor  Greene  over  the 
shoulders. 

"Thou  boy,  thou  cur,  thou  pig!"  he  cried  between 
the  strokes.  "Thou  art  beneath  aught  but  chastise- 
ment, else  would  I  demand  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentle- 
man; and  I  would  prove  to  thee  my  swordsmanship, 
thou  -  " 

"Peace,  peace,"  interrupted  Will,  arresting  Sir 
John's  sword  at  imminent  danger  of  its  being  turned 
upon  himself,  and  motioning  the  fat  man  to  his  seat. 
"Robin  is  but  a  lad,  Sir  John;  forgive  him.  Robin, 
thou  dost  not  well  to  doubt  the  knight's  word.  Come, 
landlord,  another  cup  of  sack  !" 

With  some  difficulty  the  storm  was  calmed;  Sir 
John,  breathing  forth  threatenings  against  Robin 
Greene,  at  length  subsided  into  his  former  place.  His 
tormentor  and  victim,  almost  weeping  with  pain  and 
rage,  shook  his  boyish  fists  at  the  fat  man,  in  impotent 
anger.  Marlowe  sat  laughing  derisively  at  them  both, 
but  Burbadge's  face  remained  grave.  Jonson  was 
pouring  forth  a  flood  of  classical  comparisons,  in  which 

142 


the  late  undignified  encounter  was  likened  to  some  of 
the  famous  combats  before  Troy.  Will's  face  wore  an 
abstracted  expression.  Meseemed  he  looked  older  and 
graver  than  when  I  had  seen  him  last.  At  length  all 
became  peaceful  again.  Sir  John,  having  gulped  down 
much  liquor,  presently  nodded  himself  into  a  doze. 
Greene  sat  in  sulky  silence.  The  rest  became  quiet 
when  the  fat  man's  inspiring  jollity  had  sunk  into 
slumber. 

"The  old  villain!"  said  Marlowe,  gazing  at  him 
contemplatively.  "He's  rare  sport,  indeed,  but  what  a 
liar!  Thy  mock  title  soothly  delights  him  greatly, 
Will.  'Tis  said  there's  some  strain  of  noble  blood  in 
him,  which  accounts  for  his  pleasure  when  thou  dost 
dub  him  knight.  Why  dost  humor  him  so?" 

Will  smiled  a  little,  but  made  no  reply. 

"Canst  not  conjecture,  Marlowe?"  interposed  Bur- 
badge,  quickly  and  kindly.  "Sir  John  will  be  in  a  play 
some  day  that  will  capture  the  town.  Then  the  Queen's 
Majesty " 

Will  interrupted  him  by  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"Castles  in  Spain,"  he  said,  lightly,  yet  methought 
somewhat  sadly,  also.  "Castles  in  Spain!  Sooth,  such 
are  they  like  to  remain,  meseems  just  now — Robin, 

143 


Robin,  thou  knowest  my  future  welfare  may  hang  on 
this  performance.  Wilt  not  act  my  Juliet?" 

"Nay,"  said  Robin,  curtly  and  decisively,  and 
turned  his  back  upon  the  others. 

"Thou  saucy  lad!"  began  Jonson,  angrily. 

"Thy  reason?"  said  Burbadge,  gazing  at  the  boy 
sternly.  He  pouted  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but 
made  no  other  reply. 

"He's  the  only  player  who  will  look  the  part,"  said 
Jonson,  mournfully.  A  fleeting  glance  of  triumph 
swept  over  Greene's  face  at  the  words. 

Burbadge  sighed  and  looked  away  from  the  rest 
in  thought.  As  he  did  so  his  eyes  fell  on  me.  His 
face  brightened  a  little  and  he  touched  Will's  arm  and 
whispered  in  his  ear. 

Fully  conscious  of  his  movement,  yet  obliged  to 
appear  unseeing,  I  sat  in  agony  for  a  moment.  Was 
I  recognized,  in  this  place,  among  this  company?  A 
strange  feeling,  half  joy,  half  sorrow,  tugged  at  my 
heart.  The  next  instant  I  was  calm  again.  At  Bur- 
badge's  whispered  words  Will  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  relief.  He  rose  and  came  towards  me.  The  rest 
stared  at  him  in  amazement;  then,  with  one  accord, 
followed,  all  except  Greene  and  Sir  John.  The  group 


closed  around  the  table  where  I  sat.  There  was  no 
recognition  in  their  gaze.  Even  Will  looked  me  in  the 
eyes  and  knew  me  not. 

He  spoke  presently  with  the  ready  charm  that  was 
always  his. 

"Good-morrow,  lad.  Hast  come  to  London  to  seek 
thy  fortune?  By  thy  countenance  and  dress  I  judge 
that  thou  art  not  of  the  city." 

I  nodded,  my  eyes  searching  his  face  half  eagerly, 
half  fearfully,  for  any  sign  of  recognition.  I  did  not 
find  it. 

"Why,  then,  thy  fortune's  thine  without  seeking 
further,"  Will  continued,  cheerily.  "We're  players,  lad. 
Wilt  join  us?  Thy  face  and  figure  are  rarely  suited 
to  a  woman's  part,  and  lads  like  thee  are  scarce  in 
London  town.  Yon  fellow,  sulking  at  the  table,  hath 
been  the  only  one,  and  he  is  spoilt  through  prosperity. 
Wilt  be  his  rival?" 

I  looked  at  the  different  players,  hesitating, 
dubious.  I  had  not  dreamed  of  this ;  yet  in  what  better 
way  could  my  mission  be  accomplished?  Will  thought 
my  silence  rose  from  boyish  timidity,  and  continued, 
kindly,  encouragingly. 

"I  have  a  play,  an  Italian  play,  and  need  a  heroine 
145 


for  it."     He  looked  at  me  critically  again,  and  mur- 
mured : 

"It  is  my  lady ;  oh,  it  is  my  love !" 

I  had  to  hold  myself  rigid  to  prevent  a  visible 
shiver  running  through  me.  Alack!  what  bitter-sweet 
memories  those  words  awakened! 

At  that  moment  Robin  Greene  awoke  to  some  ink- 
ling of  what  was  going  on.  He  rose  from  the  table 
and  joined  the  rest. 

"Who  is  this?"  he  said  in  his  high-pitched  voice, 
gazing  at  me  superciliously. 

"Thy  rival,  Robin!"  cried  Marlowe,  with  a  great 
laugh,  as  he  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

A  mean,  dangerous  expression  came  into  Greene's 
eyes.  He  looked  at  me  jealously,  contemptuously;  then 
darted  a  glance  of  hatred  at  Will.  The  last  look  de- 
cided me. 

"I  am  at  your  service,  sirs,"  I  said,  speaking  in  a 
voice  higher  than  my  natural  one,  in  order  to  disguise 
it  more  effectually.  "I  will  follow  you,  master,"  I  said 
to  Will.  And  thus  quickly  my  mission  was  half-per- 
formed. 

Jonson's  face  and  Burbadge's  lighted  generously. 
146 


Marlowe  gazed  from  Greene's  jealous  countenance  to 
mine  with  a  look  of  malicious  amusement. 

Will's  face  relaxed,  and  he  smiled  die  rare  and 


fmiV»  that  I  had  once  loved  welL 
"Then  welcome,  my  Juliet,"  said  he,  and  gave  me 

his  nanc  to  se<Li  trie  corr.p-act.. 


haprerl  1X1 


One  fair  June  day,  a 
few  weeks  after  that  scene 
in  the  tavern,  I  stood  at 
the  entrance  of  the  Globe, 
idly  awaiting  a  rehearsal. 
So  far,  most  of  my  plans 
had  been  carried  out  with 
a  success  beyond  my  most 
hopeful  dreams.  I  had  obtained  confidential  access  to 
Will  without  the  least  difficulty.  I  was  with  him  every 
day,  my  lodgings  were  near  his,  we  talked  and  worked 
together;  yet  he  showed  no  passing  realization  of  my 
identity. 

I  had  displaced  Robin  Greene  in  Will's  new  play, 
thereby  making  the  former  the  lasting  enemy  of  us 
both.  I  had  become  a  favorite  among  the  actors  in 
general,  however,  and  they  made  much  of  me.  The 
stout  Sir  John  patronized  me  with  his  usual  humorous 
effrontery.  Marlowe  was  contemptuously  kind.  He 
knew  not  how  to  show  good  feeling  otherwise.  Jonson 
treated  me  in  hearty,  whole-souled  fashion,  while  Bur- 
badge  was  fatherly  and  courteous,  as  was  his  wont 
towards  all  things  young  and  delicate.  The  rest  were 
kindly,  too;  I  was  their  friend  and  confidant.  I  heard 


all  the  gossip  of  the  company;  their  loves  and  hates, 
their  sins  and  virtues;  yet 

I  passed  my  hand  across  my  brow  with  an  im- 
patient gesture  as  the  thought  came  to  me,  as  often 
before,  that  June  morning.  I  had  been  told  the  faults 
and  foibles,  the  weaknesses  and  transgressions,  of  so 
many  in  the  company.  And  yet — not  one  had  men- 
tioned the  Countess,  nor  had  any  spoken  of  him  she 
had  called  Lord  William  that  afternoon  beside  the 
Avon.  Could  it  be  that  they  both  had  lied?  If  so, 
why  the  falsehood,  since  they  thought  none  was  by  to 
hear?  If  their  words  had  been  truth,  why  had  none 
of  the  players  mentioned  the  existence  of  either  Count 
or  Countess?  To  be  sure,  they  had  been  busy  with  the 
new  play;  still 

I  was  waiting  now  for  Will,  who,  as  usual,  was  to 
direct  the  rehearsal  that  morning.  He  was  later  than 
was  his  custom,  since  he  had  said  the  day  before  that 
he  expected  to  bring  a  friend  with  him  to  rehearsal. 
When  he  had  so  spoken  the  others  had  looked  at  each 
other  significantly.  I  had  caught  their  quick  glances, 
and  had  wondered  as  to  their  meaning. 

Suddenly,  as  I  stood  there,  impatiently  awaiting 
Will's  coming,  I  saw  a  small  boat  leave  the  opposite 

152 


shore  and  move  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  Globe. 
As  the  tiny  craft  drew  near  I  saw  that  there  were  two 
occupants  besides  the  boatman.  One  was  Will;  the 
other 

Involuntarily  I  put  both  hands  over  my  heart,  as 
if  to  hush  its  wild  beating.  I  closed  my  eyes  dizzily 
for  a  moment,  then  opened  them  and  stared  again  at 
Will's  companion.  I  had  seen,  before,  that  handsome, 
careless  face,  and  the  stately  figure  in  its  bravery  of 
blue  and  gold.  The  yellow  cloak,  glistening  in  the  sun- 
light, I  had  beheld  spread  as  a  throne  for  her  who  had 
wrecked  my  life,  the  dark  enchantress  who  had  lured 
my  love  from  me.  Was  my  mission  to  London  nearly 
completed,  was  my  problem  almost  solved? 

Fortunately,  no  one  was  near  to  witness  my  agita- 
tion, and  by  the  time  the  boat  had  landed  I  had  regained 
my  self-possession.  Will  and  the  Count  sprang  to  the 
shore  and  came  towards  me  in  confidential  conversa- 
tion with  each  other.  The  Count  paused  to  throw  a 
coin  to  the  boatman.  It  glistened  yellow  in  the  sun. 

"There!"  he  cried;  "there's  for  thy  pains,  good 
fellow!  Take  it  as  token  of  my  joy  to  be  once  more 
in  London  with  my  good  comrade,"  and  again  he  passed 
his  arm  affectionately  across  Will's  shoulders. 

153 


"Ay,"  said  Will,  smiling  at  him  in  reply;  "I  can 
believe  that  thou  art  glad  to  be  once  again  on  English 
soil.  France  would  scarce  be  to  the  liking  of  so  direct 
a  soul  as  thyself." 

"Nay;  and  it  was  away  from  her,"  the  Count  said, 
passionately.  He  spoke  lower,  yet  I  caught  the  words. 
"Before  heaven,  Will,  my  love  will  consume  me,  an 
she  still  prove  cruel;  and  yet — for  thy  sake " 

Will  made  no  reply  in  words;  but  I  can  scarce 
describe  the  look  that  answered  the  Count.  In  it  there 
was  love,  and  sorrow,  and  comprehension;  yet  for 
whom  were  the  affection,  the  sadness,  the  understand- 
ing? Ah,  for  whom? 

"And  yet,"  the  Count  went  on,  eagerly,  plead- 
ingly; "once  more,  grant  me  this  boon  I  beg  of  thee. 
To  me  she  would  never  vouchsafe  it;  yet  to  thee " 

Will  sighed;  and  as  he  looked  away  from  the 
Count  his  eyes  happened  to  fall  upon  me,  standing  still 
and  pale  before  the  entrance  to  the  Globe.  He  gazed 
at  me  an  instant,  as  if  the  sight  suggested  an  idea. 
Then  he  spoke  again  to  the  Count. 

"Ay,  well,  I'll  grant  thee  this  boon,  and  the  fates 
favor  us.  I'll  send  yon  boy  as  messenger.  He's  young, 
and  hath  a  pretty  wit,  and  will  please  her,  methinks. 

154 


Remember,  no  word  of  this  to  any  of  the  players  else. 
They  know  naught  positively  of  my  connection  with 
her.  They  conjecture  much,  I  doubt  me  not,  and  some 
of  them  visit  her,  but  I  have  made  it  understood  that  I 
will  endure  no  jesting  about  the  lady." 

This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  I  had  heard  noth- 
ing of  the  Countess  thus  far.  Alack,  none  knew  better 
than  I  how  well  Will  could  keep  a  secret.  None  had 
known  of  our  love-story  for  a  month.  This  new  one 
of  his  apparently  had  been  secret  for  a  year. 

The  Count  gave  an  eager  word  of  assent  to  Will's 
last  words;  but  the  latter  scarce  heard  him.  He  had 
paused  suddenly,  and  was  looking  dreamily  across  the 
Thames.  He  turned  again  to  the  Count. 

"Will,"  he  said,  "leal  comrade,  true  friend,  thou 
lovest  her  well ;  but  not  as  she  can  be  loved.  Ah,  Will, 
Will,  thou  knowest  not  what  love  is!" 

That  passionate  speech,  that  look  of  tender  adora- 
tion; both  once  had  been  mine;  and  now — the  Count's 
face  was  full  of  despair;  and  as  for  me,  the  world  grew 
dark  about  me  for  an  instant.  The  pangs  of  death 
were  not  more  sharp  than  my  feelings  then.  In  mine 
ears  there  rang  as  a  refrain  some  old  words  I  had  heard 
once  in  church: 

155 


"Love  is  strong  as  death;  jealousy — jealousy  as 
cruel  as  the  grave!" 

"Enough,  Will,"  the  Count  said  at  length,  after  a 
moment's  silence.  His  voice  was  low  and  trembling, 
and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  "I  yield  thee  place; 
and  yet — since  she  herself  is  thine,  grant  me  at  least 
this  painted  image  of  her  that  I  crave." 

They  were  standing  somewhat  apart.  Will  put 
out  his  hand  and  drew  the  other  close. 

"Ay,  lad,"  he  said,  simply,  "ay,  dear  lad.     The 

miniature  shall  be  thine;  and  perhaps,  some  day " 

He  checked  himself,  and  with  the  Count,  walked  over 
to  where  I  stood. 

"Cesario,"  he  said — for  such  was  the  fanciful  name 
I  had  chosen  for  my  disguise — "Cesario,  I  will  excuse 
thee  from  rehearsal  this  morning.  I  have  an  errand 
which  thou  must  perform.  The  boat  in  which  the 
Count  and  I  came  hither  still  waits  below.  Cross  to 
the  Blackfriars  Staircase.  There  thou  wilt  find  a  page 
clad  in  crimson  awaiting  thee.  Follow  him  and  thou 
wilt  be  taken  to  the  abode  of  a  fair  lady.  Tell  her  that 
thou  dost  come  from  Will  Shakespeare,  and  she  will 
give  thee  a  packet  for  me.  See  that  thou  dost  lose  it 
not,  but  bring  it  hither.  Go  now,  and  quickly." 

156 


"I  like  not  the  sound  of  the  enterprise,"  I  said,  not 
moving.  Sooth,  I  knew  not  whether  I  could  endure 
the  sight  of  the  Countess  that  morning.  "It  hath  a 
woman  in  it.  Therefore,  'tis  dangerous." 

The  Count  burst  into  a  laugh;  but  Will  looked  at 
me  sternly. 

"How  now,  sirrah!"  he  said;  "  'tis  not  for  thee  to 
comment  upon  the  tasks  I  set  thee.  Thy  part  is  to 
obey." 

"I  am  an  English  lad,"  I  answered,  lifting  my  head 
defiantly;  "and  I  am  no  one's  slave." 

"Nay,  but  thou  art  a  servant,"  Will  replied,  calmly. 
"Carry  not  thyself  in  coxcomb-wise,  Cesario.  Thy 
Juliet  likes  me  well,  'tis  true;  but  thou  art  not  the 
only  lad  in  London.  An  my  errands  do  not  pleasure 
thee,  we'd  best  part  company." 

At  this  threat  I  succumbed,  for  it  did  not  suit  my 
plans  to  leave  Will  at  this  juncture  of  affairs.  I  grum- 
bled sulkily,  and  with  laggard  steps  started  towards 
the  boat. 

"A  pettish  lad,"  I  heard  the  Count  say,  with  some 
amusement,  as  I  went. 

"  'Tis  a  new  development,"  Will  replied  in  a  puz- 
zled tone.  "He  hath  been  gentle  and  obedient  hereto- 

157 


fore.  Natheless,  'tis  but  a  mood,  and  'twill  pass,  no 
doubt.  He's  a  good  Juliet,  and  I'll  endure  him  till 
the  play's  over,  at  least." 

Most  unreasonably  hurt  by  this  speech,  which  was 
not  intended  for  my  ears,  I  stumbled  into  the  boat, 
with  tears  in  my  eyes;  gave  a  hasty  order  to  the  man, 
and  was  rowed  away  from  the  theatre.  As  the  boat 
went  onward  I  looked  back  and  saw  the  Count  and 
Will  enter  the  Globe  together,  talking  busily.  As  the 
door  closed  upon  them  despair  seemed  to  descend  upon 
me.  It  was  true,  then.  The  dark  Countess  had  be- 
witched them  both.  "Ah,  Will,  Will,  thou  know'st  not 
what  love  is!"  he  had  cried;  and  yet — knew  he  himself? 
Passion  he  had  felt,  indeed;  but  love,  lasting  and  true? 

"Ah,  Will,"  I  cried  aloud,  not  realizing  that  I  did 
so;  "thou  know'st  not  what  love  is!" 

And  at  that  I  checked  myself,  as  I  saw  the  boat- 
man looking  at  me  in  wondering  fashion. 

"A  pox  on  thy  staring  face!"  I  cried,  in  sudden 
passion;  "and  a  murrain  on  thy  snail  of  a  boat.  Bring 
me  to  Blackfriars  within  a  moment  more  or  I'll  pre- 
vent the  actors  of  the  Globe  from  hiring  thee  again. 
To  Blackfriars,  fellow,  and  speedily!" 


igapreri  IX Hi 


The  Countess!  By  no 
other  name  did  I  ever 
know  her,  then,  or  after- 
wards, but,  sooth,  I  should 
have  instinctively  given  her 
noble  title.  No  coronet  was 
needed  upon  those  lustreless  raven  tresses,  no  sceptre 
in  those  white,  taper  fingers  to  proclaim  her  right  of 
sway.  As  I  entered  the  room,  in  response  to  the  bid- 
ding of  the  lazy,  scornful  voice  that  I  so  well  remem- 
bered, I  saw  her,  seated  by  the  window  on  a  heap  of 
yellow  cushions. 

She  was  dressed  in  thinnest  silk,  that  clung  around 
her  figure,  revealing  its  perfect,  glorious  curves.  Her 
robe  was  flame-colored,  and  as  she  sat  there,  blood-red 
against  the  light,  she  seemed  to  me  some  baleful  spirit 
incarnate. 

I  had  found  the  page,  as  Will  had  said,  and  had 
followed  him  to  a  stately  house  in  a  fine  street. 
Through  many  corridors,  up  many  staircases,  we  had 
gone  together,  without  speech,  and  meeting  no  one, 
until  at  last  we  stood  before  a  certain  closed  door. 

161 


Here  the  page  told  me  to  knock.     I  obeyed;  and  in 
reply  the  Countess's  voice  graciously  bade  me  enter. 

Now,  at  last,  I  stood  in  her  presence. 

There  was  a  half-mocking  look  in  her  eyes  as  I 
came  in,  but  when  she  saw  me  she  started  slightly  and 
sat  erect.  An  attendant  was  fanning  her.  With  an 
imperious  gesture  she  bade  her  cease. 

"Whence  com'st  thou?"  she  asked,  and  her  dark 
eyes  searched  my  face,  as  if  she  would  read  it  through. 
They  wore  an  expression  that  I  could  not  fathom. 

"From  Will  Shakespeare,"  I  answered.  My  voice 
was  low  and  trembling;  for  at  sight  of  her  the  remem- 
brance of  the  time  when  I  had  last  beheld  her  came 
over  me  like  a  destroying  flood. 

A  smile,  scornful,  triumphant,  just  crossed  her 
face,  and  was  gone.  So  have  I  seen  the  evil  lightning 
illumine  for  an  instant  the  dark  and  stormy  sky.  That 
radiance  is  not  a  cheerful  nor  a  holy  light. 

She  threw  herself  back  among  the  cushions. 

"Wherefore?"  she  drawled,  lazily,  her  eyes  still 
fixed  upon  my  face. 

Her  indifference  angered  me.  I  knew  so  well  what 
Will's  love  meant  that  I  burned  with  sudden  rage  at 
her  apparent  lack  of  feeling. 

162 


"Wherefore?"  I  repeated,  defiantly;  and  I  felt  my 
face  flush  warmly.  "Because — because,  in  sooth,  he 
loves  thee,  madam!" 

"Doth  he  so?"  she  said,  smothering  a  yawn,  and 
she  motioned  to  her  woman  to  begin  fanning  her  again. 
"The  tale  is  somewhat  old,  sir  page.  Hast  nothing 
newer  to  delight  mine  ears?" 

I  gasped  with  rage. 

"An  old  tale,  truly,  madam,"  I  answered,  finger- 
ing my  cap  with  agitated,  angry  hands;  "an  old  tale, 
but  sweet,  to  any  save  a  tigress,  gloating  o'er  her 
prey." 

She  laughed  outright.  Her  very  merriment  had 
a  scornful  ring.  She  lifted  a  fold  of  her  red  robe  and 
let  it  fall  again. 

"So  tigers  have  crimson  coats?"  she  said,  and  the 
lazy  amusement  in  her  voice  goaded  me  to  the  last 
pitch  of  exasperation.  "Thy  knowledge  of  animals 
needs  addition,  little  page/' 

"I  know  naught  of  their  coats,"  I  answered,  im- 
mediately, for  my  hatred  of  her  seemed  to  spur  my 
wits;  "I  know  naught  of  their  outside  seeming;  but 
good  sooth,  madam,  I  can  discern  a  tiger's  heart" 

She  looked  at  me  in  silence  for  an  instant,  and  her 
163 


gloomy,  inscrutable  eyes  seemed  to  reach  my  very  soul. 
The  laughter  was  gone  out  of  her  face. 

"So?"  she  said  at  last,  suddenly.  "Where  didst 
get  thy  knowledge,  boy;  thou,  a  mere  child?  Art  Will 
Shakespeare's  messenger?"  She  made  no  pause  be- 
tween her  first  question  and  her  last;  and,  indeed,  the 
former  words  seemed  rather  to  herself  than  to  me. 

"Ay,  madam,"  I  answered.  "I  am  his  messenger; 
and  soothly  an  easy  thing  it  was  for  me  to  reach  thee." 

"And  why,  little  page?"  she  said  in  a  softer  tone 
than  she  had  yet  used. 

"Ah,  madam,  dost  need  to  ask?"  I  replied.  "Dost 
not  know  that  love  hath  wings?" 

She  leaned  forward  with  sudden,  curious  eager- 
ness. 

"And  was  it  love  that  brought  thee  hither?"  she 
said  in  a  low,  passionate  voice. 

"Ay  madam,"  I  said,  again.  "Will  Shakespeare's 
love  inspired  me,  his  love  brought  me  hither;"  and 
even  as  the  words  passed  my  lips  I  realized  how  bit- 
terly true  they  were. 

She  sighed,  and  sat  an  instant  in  deep  thought; 
I  remained  silent,  also,  and  during  that  quiet  moment 
a  strange  and  sudden  resolution  seized  me.  Why  the 

164 


singular  determination  came  to  me  I  never  knew;  but 
true  it  is  that  then  and  there  I  resolved  to  play  my 
part ;  to  plead  Will's  cause  as  it  were  my  own.  I  would 
show  this  cruel  enchantress  what  manner  of  man  it 
was  that  she  flouted.  I  would  win  her  for  him  if  I 
could.  'Twas  all  that  was  left  me  to  do  for  him.  What 
was  my  life,  now  that  he  loved  me  no  longer? 

"Thou  speakest  well,  little  page,"  the  Countess  said 
at  length,  rousing  from  her  revery;  "so  well  that  it 
pleases  me  to  hear  thee  further.  Leave  us,  Margaret." 

The  woman  cast  a  glance  of  surprise,  first  at  her 
mistress,  then  at  me ;  but  she  did  as  she  was  told.  Lay- 
ing down  the  fan,  she  bowed  to  the  Countess,  and  left 
the  room  quickly  and  silently. 

"Ah !"  said  the  Countess,  when  she  was  gone,  "now 
we  can  talk  with  more  freedom.  Come  nearer,  little 
page,  and  sit  by  me."  She  moved  over  a  little  and 
made  an  inviting  gesture  to  a  place  beside  her  on  the 
cushions. 

"Nay,  madam,"  I  said ;  "not  such  my  place  of  right, 
but  here  at  thy  feet.  I  am  love's  messenger;  and  love 
is  ever  humble."  I  moved  forward  and  knelt  beside 
her.  Sooth,  I  could  not  have  seated  myself  where  she 
indicated,  although  not  for  the  reason  I  gave.  I  feared 

165 


lest  the  scorn  and  loathing  I  felt  for  her  would  over- 
whelm me  in  such  close  proximity. 

"So  be  it,  then,"  said  the  Countess,  with  a  curious 
look.  Did  I  dream  it  or  was  there  truly  a  strange  new 
softness  in  her  voice?  "Thy  name?" 

"Cesario,"  I  said;  "Cesario,  and  thy  servant, 
madam." 

"Cesario!"  she  repeated;  and  then  again,  "Cesario! 
Cesario!"  in  a  voice  that  was  liquid  music.  Ah, 
heavens!  what  divine  melody  it  was  to  hear  her  speak! 
No  wonder  that  those  siren  notes  drew  forth  men's 
hearts  to  rest  with  gladness  beneath  her  cruel  feet! 

"Thou  say'st  thou  art  my  servant?"  she  went  on, 
after  a  moment,  and  her  voice  was  low  and  sweet,  with 
no  trace  in  it  of  mockery  nor  scorn.  "Is't,  sooth?  Art 
thou  verily  my  servant,  Cesario?" 

"Will  Shakespeare's  servant,  madam,  and  there- 
fore thine,"  I  replied,  perplexed  by  her  tone  and  man- 
ner. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  had  forgot,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture 
of  impatience.  "Well,  thou  com'st  from  him,  thou  hast 
said.  Speak  on." 

"I  come  on  a  quest,  madam,"  I  replied.  "He  sent 
me  hither  for  a  packet  that  thou  didst  promise  him." 

166 


Slfrake  speared  — .  JlDtwc  et  frearH 

She  looked  at  me,  unheeding,  in  frowning,  thought- 
ful fashion.  "Thou  say'st  he  loves  me,"  she  said,  sud- 
denly; "ay,  so  I  think;  yet — is  he  worthy  of  my  love?" 

"Worthy?"  I  repeated,  angrily;  "worthy?  Madam, 
there  dwells  not  the  woman  on  earth  who  is  worthy 
of  him;  nay,  not  even  the  Queen's  Majesty!" 

"Thou  plead'st  well,  Cesario,"  she  observed,  and  I 
saw  her  eyes  narrow  in  the  curious,  cat-like  way  I 
remembered  well;  "thou  plead'st  well — but  I  have 
heard Art  from  the  country?" 

"Ay,  madam,"  I  replied,  wondering  at  what  point 
she  aimed. 

"Hast  known  Will  Shakespeare  long?"  she  asked, 
looking  at  me  keenly. 

For  a  moment  I  was  scared  most  mightily.  Should 
I  lie  or  not?  Woman's  wits  are  keen.  Was't  possible 
she  guessed  my  sex? 

"Ay,"  I  replied,  cautiously,  at  length.  "We  lived 
in  the  same  neighborhood." 

"Oh,  brave!"  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden  anima- 
tion. Once  more  she  leaned  forward,  and  fixed  her 
eyes  intently  upon  my  face.  "Now  shall  I  learn  that 
which  I  have  long  desired  to  know.  Hath  Will  Shake- 
speare a  deserted  sweetheart  in  Stratford  town?" 

167 


Suddenly,  directly,  the  question  was  put  to  me.  I 
stood  a  moment  in  a  quandary,  indeed.  Should  I  tell 
all,  betray  him,  save  myself;  or  should  I  choose  the 
nobler  part?  In  a  flash  my  decision  was  made.  I 
strove  to  make  my  voice  careless  as  I  answered. 

"Nay,  'tis  not  true.  Will  Shakespeare  hath  been 
always  well  beloved  among  both  men  and  maids.  His 
name  hath  been  coupled  oft  with  various  lasses'  names ; 

especially  with  one "  I  paused,  and  my  voice  broke 

a  little ;  "with  whom  he  once  went  Maying.  I  am  sure 
now  that  he  never  loved  her." 

She  shot  a  quick  glance  at  me  from  under  her 
long  lashes. 

"Thy  voice  trembles,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "Art 
sorry  for  her?" 

"Ay,  madam,"  I  answered,  gently;  and  my  traitor 
voice  would  tremble  still;  "ay,  for  I  knew  her  and  I 
am  sure  that  she  loved  him,  even  to  the  breaking  of 
her  heart.  Natheless,  that  was  no  fault  of  Will's,"  I 
added,  hastily. 

"Nay;  'tis  woman's  way,"  said  the  Countess,  with 
a  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her  voice.  "Cesario,  thou  lov'st 
thy  master  well."  She  paused  a  moment;  then  con- 
tinued, abruptly.  "Dost  love  no  other,  boy?" 


I  stared  at  her  in  sudden,  horrified  comprehension. 
She  rose  and  came  towards  me,  and  for  the  first  time 
I  noticed  that  we  were  of  a  height. 

"Cesario,"  she  murmured,  again  in  that  tone  of 
low,  beguiling  music;  "Cesario,  dost  love  no  other,  lad, 
dear  lad?" 

Still  too  dismayed  to  speak,  I  stood  without 
moving. 

"Cesario,"  she  went  on,  and  I  swear  her  spoken 
words  were  sweeter  than  those  that  others  sing; 
"Cesario,  thou  hast  plead  well  thy  master's  cause. 
How  rarely  couldst  thou  present  thine  own!  Dost 
love  no  woman,  boy?" 

She  was  close  beside  me.  The  perfume  of  her 
garments  made  my  senses  reel.  She  swayed  her  lissome 
body  towards  me,  and  her  smouldering  eyes  sought  to 
draw  forth  my  soul.  What  good  angel  gave  me  voice 
and  words  to  answer  her  I  know  not,  but  I  spoke  as  by 
inspiration. 

"Ay,  I  love,  I  love  already,  Countess.  I  love  one 
of  my  master's  favor."  She  paused  at  my  reply,  and 
the  jealous  rage  that  clouded  her  beauty  was  horrible 
to  see. 

"But  how?"  she  whispered,  hoarsely,  putting  her 
169 


hand  on  my  arm;  "how  dost  thou  love  her?     Couldst 
not  love  more  truly — one — like  me?" 

I  made  no  reply,  and  she  hurried  on,  eagerly,  en- 
treatingly. 

"Many  men  have  sought  to  win  my  heart,  Cesario, 
but  all  have  I  denied.  I  have  sworn  never  to  be  con- 
quered, because  once,  long  ago — well,  'tis  an  old  story, 
and  I  will  not  tell  it  thee.  But  now — now,  I  have  met 
my  master.  Oh,  Cesario,  have  mercy!  I  love  thee." 

"The  packet,  madam?"  I  repeated,  mechanically; 
and  I  stayed  her  as  she  would  have  knelt  at  my  feet. 

"  "Pis  thine,"  she  answered,  and  she  began  to  un- 
loose a  chain  from  about  her  neck.  "  "Pis  thine,"  she 
repeated,  and  she  drew  forth  from  her  bosom  a  min- 
iature set  with  pearls  and  laid  it  in  my  hands.  "Re- 
member, 'tis  not  Will  Shakespeare's,  but  thine.  Many 
have  sought  the  bauble.  Behold  how  freely  I  give  it 
thee.  How  wilt  thank  me?" 

"Madam,  thus,"  I  answered,  bending  to  kiss  the 
hand  that  had  bestowed  the  favor,  "thus  I  thank  thee, 
and  take  my  leave,  for  I  have  tarried  long." 

She  looked  at  me  and  sighed.  "As  thou  wilt,"  she 
said  at  length,  submissively,  "as  thou  wilt,  so  thou  dost 
come  again.  Thou  wilt  come?" 

170 


"If  my  master  sends,"  I  answered,  and  as  I  spoke 
I  moved  towards  the  door,  for  I  longed  to  leave  her. 

"He  will  do  so,"  she  said,  with  a  trace  of  her  old 
mocking  manner.  "Farewell,  then,  Cesario,  until  we 
meet  again."  My  hand  was  on  the  door.  With  a  sud- 
den, sweeping  movement  she  was  beside  me,  and  ere 
I  was  aware  of  her  intention  she  kissed  me  lightly 
upon  the  mouth. 

"I  have  kissed  thee  on  the  lips,"  she  whispered. 
"Has  woman  ever  done  the  like  before?  Remember, 
I  have  sealed  thee  mine.  Farewell,  Cesario,  my  love, 
my  love!" 

Blindly,  I  opened  the  door  and  fled  along  the  cor- 
ridor, down  the  staircase  and  thence  into  the  street. 
How  I  found  my  way  I  never  knew;  but  at  length, 
when  I  had  in  some  measure  recovered  my  self-pos- 
session, I  was  at  the  Blackfriars  landing.  I  stood  a 
moment  or  two  striving  to  collect  my  thoughts,  but, 
finding  the  task  a  vain  one,  I  hailed  a  boat  and  started 
to  return  to  the  Globe. 

My  mind  was  in  a  turmoil.  Here  was  a  coil,  in- 
deed. The  Countess  was  in  love  with  me,  or,  rather, 
with  my  disguise.  What  should  I  do?  Were  it  wiser 
to  let  the  comedy  go  on,  or  should  I  declare  myself 

171 


and  end  it  forthwith?  When  I  reached  the  theatre  the 
problem  was  still  unsolved,  and  with  a  shrug  I  dis- 
missed it  from  my  thoughts. 

Time  must  disentangle  the  situation;   'twas  too 
hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie. 


.haprer  T 


Everything  was  in  con- 
fusion when  I  entered  the 
theatre.  Rushes  were  be- 
ing strewed  upon  the  stage, 
and  the  hangings  for  a 
tragedy  were  going  up.  I 
saw  actors  busy  here,  there, 
and  everywhere ;  and  in  the 

midst  of  all  stood  Will,  directing,  commanding,  sug- 
gesting. In  a  dark  corner  of  the  stage  lolled  Sir  John, 
interjecting  occasional  remarks,  which  caused  the  actors 
to  roar  with  laughter.  Count  William  was  nowhere  to 
be  seen. 

Will  saw  me  at  the  instant  I  entered,  and  hailed 
me  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"At  last,  Cesario,"  he  cried;  "thou  hast  tarried 
long.  Come  hither,  boy,  and  quickly;  for  we  await  thy 
presence.  There's  need  that  we  should  work  briskly; 
for  her  Majesty,  God  save  her !  has  just  sent  word  that 
she  wishes  to  have  this  play  performed  at  the  palace 
within  a  fortnight." 

"Thou  wilt  be  in  royal  company,  then,  Will,"  ob- 
served Sir  John,  pretending  to  wipe  his  eyes;  "thou'lt 
have  no  place  in  thy  heart  for  poor  old  John." 

175 


"Nay,  thou'lt  not  let  him  forget  thee  so  long  as 
he  hath  money  in  his  purse,"  cried  Marlowe,  giving  the 
fat  man  a  boisterous  slap  on  the  shoulder.  Sir  John 
shook  under  the  blow,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to  re- 
taliate. He  only  began  to  rub  the  place,  with  an  air 
of  offended  dignity.  Meanwhile  I  had  come  close  to 
Will. 

"Hast  the  miniature?"  he  said  to  me  in  a  quick, 
anxious  undertone. 

"Ay,"  I  answered,  beginning  to  reach  under  my 
doublet  for  the  toy.  I  had  not  the  least  desire  to  retain 
it  for  my  own,  despite  the  Countess's  words. 

"  Tis  well,  keep  it  safe,"  said  Will,  staying  my 
movement  with  a  quick  gesture.  "Not  here  and  now. 
The  Count  hath  gone  hence.  Moreover,  we  shall  be 
observed.  To-morrow,  after  the  play,  will  serve." 

"Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn " 

a  rich  voice  began  to  carol  behind  us.  Will  started, 
and  turned  with  an  exclamation  of  annoyance.  I  also 
looked  around  to  see  who  sang.  Behold,  'twas  no  other 

176 


than  Sir  John,  who  sat  there,  his  eyes  half  closed, 
breathing  forth  the  pathetic  words  in  a  voice  infinitely 
rich  and  sorrowful.  One  wondered  how  so  rare  a 
thing  could  be  enclosed  in  so  cumbrous  a  casket. 

"Enough!"  said  Will,  imperatively;  "no  more,  Jack. 
That  song  belongs  not  to  Romeus  and  Juliet." 

Sir  John  paused,  obediently,  but  went  on  Humming 
the  air  in  a  kind  of  undertone.  His  choice  had  been 
accidental,  no  doubt;  but  the  words  he  had  sung 
sounded  like  the  voice  of  fate.  Will  had  been  visibly 
annoyed  by  them.  Was  conscience  troubling  him?  I 
went  sorrowfully  to  my  place,  the  wonder  torment- 
ing me. 

The  rehearsal  began.  Master  Jonson  was  Capulet, 
Marlowe  did  Tybalt,  and  Burbadge,  Mercutio.  The 
latter  took  the  part  of  hero,  as  a  rule;  but  as  this  was 
Will's  own  play,  he  himself  was  to  act  Romeus.  How 
bitter-sweet  this  last  arrangement  made  the  part  of 
Juliet  to  me!  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  re- 
living my  own  love-story.  Had  it  not  also  begun  in 
rapture  and  ended  in  despair?  Again,  the  contrast 
between  Will's  falsehood  and  the  faith  of  Romeus 
would  cut  me  to  the  heart  so  deep  that  I  found  my 
double  part  passing  difficult  to  play. 

177 


Pale  and  quiet,  I  stood  on  my  balcony  that  after- 
noon and  went  through  the  wooing  scene.  The  min- 
iature lay  upon  my  heart,  and  seemed  to  burn  my 
bosom.  How  careful  Will  had  been  that  e'en  the  sem- 
blance of  the  Countess  should  not  be  exposed  to  the 
players'  idle  gaze;  while  I  stood  here,  before  them  all, 
for  them  to  jest  over  and  criticise  as  they  would.  'Twas 
true  he  knew  me  not,  but  had  it  not  been  for  his  false- 
hood I  had  not  been  there  at  all.  That  day's  long 
and  difficult  rehearsal  was  the  final  one.  The  follow- 
ing afternoon  occurred  the  first  public  performance,  in 
preparation  for  the  great  one  at  the  palace.  I  slept 
with  the  miniature  under  my  pillow  that  night;  and 
methought  it  gave  me  uneasy  dreams. 

The  next  day  I  reached  the  Globe  at  the  appointed 
time.  It  was  still  early,  but  there  was  already  a  great 
crowd  about  the  theatre.  Swearing,  singing,  jostling 
one  another,  they  awaited  the  opening  of  the  doors. 
The  red  sign  announcing  the  performance  of  a  tragedy 
was  hung  without  the  building;  and  as  I  read  it 
mechanically  I  thought  of  how  much  pleasure  it  would 
have  given  me,  in  my  own  person,  to  witness  my  hus- 
band's triumph.  As  it  was I  pushed  further 

thought  away,  and  entered. 

178 


jS]i\i/cef  hearf-) 


I  found  Will  pacing  up  and  down  the  stage.  Sir 
John  was  at  his  elbow,  following  and  imitating  him, 
so  far  as  his  unwieldy  frame  would  permit. 

"Ha,  fellow!"  cried  the  latter,  importantly,  as  he 
saw  me.  "Why  hast  tarried  so  long?  Thou'st  wor- 
ried our  dear  WilL" 

"I  am  not  subject  to  your  reproof,  sirrah!"  I  an- 
swered, tartly,  for  the  speech  angered  me.  Will's  brow 
had  cleared  as  I  came  in. 

"The  lad  is  right,  Sir  John,"  he  said,  somewhat 
imperiously.  "He  is  here  in  time  and  'tis  enough. 
Thou  art  not  his  monitor." 

Sir  John's  tone  changed  instantly.  "Nay,  I  meant 
not  to  be  hard  on  the  boy,"  he  said,  smiling  at  me 
unctuously.  "So  thou  art  satisfied,  Will,  I  am,  also. 
Had  he  not  come,  remember,"  he  paused  impressively, 
"remember,  I  offered  to  take  his  place." 

This  remark  was  made  with  much  gravity,  and 
the  speaker's  size  rendered  the  idea  of  his  performing 
Juliet  irresistibly  ludicrous. 

"Thou!"  said  Will,  his  face  relaxing  into  a  laugh. 
"Nay,  thou  shouldst  rather  play  the  Nurse.  A  truce 
to  thy  folly.  Sir  John;  and  get  thee  to  thy  place.  Hark! 
the  doors  are  opening!" 

179 


We  heard  the  cannon  fired  without,  announcing 
the  opening  of  the  play,  and  fled  to  get  ready. 

A  little  while  later  I  peeped  out  between  the  cur- 
tains to  get  a  glance  at  the  audience.  There  was  a 
full  house.  The  pit  was  crowded  with  commoners, 
who  had  made  up  the  unruly  mob  without.  The  air 
resounded  with  their  jests  and  oaths  and  snatches  of 
song,  while  they  waited  for  the  play  to  begin.  In  the 
balcony  beyond  sat  the  gentry;  and  on  each  side  of  the 
stage  were  chairs,  as  yet  vacant,  which  the  nobles 
would  occupy  later.  The  last  were  usually  tardy  in 
their  arrival,  since  they  felt  more  secure  of  their  places 
than  did  the  masses. 

Standing  in  a  corner  of  the  pit  I  saw  Robin  Greene, 
looking  gloomily  about,  and,  greatly  to  my  surprise, 
stout  Sir  John  was  close  beside  him.  Even  as  I  looked, 
Robin  turned,  and  the  two  began  to  talk  together  con- 
fidentially, with  occasional  glances  towards  the  stage. 
So  utterly  surprised  was  I  that  I  scarce  knew  what  to 
do.  Surely  this  amiable  converse  between  Will's  sworn 
enemy  and  one  who  accepted  his  favors  and  professed 
to  be  his  friend  boded  no  good  to  Will  himself.  For 
an  instant  I  hesitated  as  to  what  course  to  follow ;  then 
the  power  to  decide  was  taken  from  me.  Will,  dressed 

180 


in  black  and  wearing  a  cloak,  came  forward  to  speak 
the  prologue,  and  I  left  the  stage  precipitately. 

I  had  already  donned  my  feminine  attire,  and  was 
struck  with  a  sudden  fear  lest  he  should  recognize  me 
in  these  more  familiar  garments;  but  he  did  not.  He 
had  seen  me  only  in  peasant  garb,  not  in  the  bravery 
of  Juliet's  silks  and  satins.  Moreover,  my  dyed  locks 
and  stained  face  still  stood  me  in  good  stead.  He 
looked  at  me  approvingly,  and  remarked  that  the  gown 
became  me  well.  Then,  as  I  left  the  stage,  I  heard 
his  clear  voice  begin: 

"Two  households,  both  alike  in  dignity " 

The  opening  scene  followed,  amid  much  applause, 
and  at  length  it  was  time  for  my  first  appearance. 
How  natural  and  delightful  it  seemed  to  be  a  maid 
once  more.  Now  that  the  time  had  come,  I  quite  en- 
joyed my  part.  Lightly  I  ran  on  the  stage  in  answer 
to  the  call  of  Lady  Capulet  and  the  Nurse,  and  cried, 
blithely: 

"Madam,  I  am  here !    What  is  your  will?" 

As  I  was  in  the  midst  of  this  scene  Count  William 
entered  quietly  and  took  his  seat  at  the  right  of  the 
stage.  He  caught  my  eye  presently,  and  gave  me  a 

181 


kindly  nod  and  smile.  As  for  me,  I  flushed  guiltily 
for  an  instant.  I  could  not  help  wondering  what  he 
and  Will  would  have  said  had  they  overheard  the  con- 
versation between  the  Countess  and  myself  the  day  be- 
fore. As  for  that  kiss  at  parting 

"I'll  look  to  like  if  looking  liking  move, 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly." 

I  came  back,  with  a  start,  to  the  scene  about  me 
as  my  own  voice  uttered  the  words. 

There  were  sounds  of  unmistakable  approval  from 
the  audience  as  Juliet's  interview  with  her  mother 
ended;  and  the  nobles  came  crowding  around  Will  and 
me,  congratulating  him  on  his  new  actor.  Will  thanked 
them  for  us  both,  and  uttered  a  few  words  of  com- 
mendation on  his  own  account,  which  were  at  once 
pleasing  and  distressing  to  me.  These  congratulations 
ended,  the  play  progressed  a  little  further,  and  then 
came  my  first  trying  ordeal,  the  ball-room  scene,  where 
Romeus  and  Juliet  meet.  For  some  minutes  I  was  on 
the  stage,  scarce  knowing  what  was  going  on.  Then, 
ah,  then!  I  was  brought  back  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
feeling  to  the  play  and  to  my  part.  Will  entered  as 

182 


Romeus,  with  Burbadge  as  Mercutio,  and  some  lesser 
actor  as  Benvolio.  An  instant  later  his  melodious  voice 
— who  knew  so  well  as  I  its  music  and  its  charm? — 
broke  across  the  ordinary  accents  of  the  rest: 

"What  lady's  that,  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight?" 

And  then  came  those  words  which  had  been  spoken 
to  me,  to  me  alone,  one  happy  May  morn — dear  God! 
how  many  years  ago? 

"Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night, 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear; 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear!" 

I  swayed  an  instant  where  I  stood.  Gone  was  the 
restless  pit,  with  its  noisy,  pushing  crowd;  gone  the 
roofless  theatre,  with  the  blue  sky  fair  above ;  gone  was 
the  hall  of  the  Capulets  and  the  Italian  revellers.  Only 
Will  and  I  remained ;  and  he  stood  in  a  sweet-smelling 
country  lane  on  a  fair  English  May  Day,  while  I  leaned 
from  a  vine-framed  window  above;  and  love  undying, 
strong  as  death,  entered  my  poor  heart. 

Kit  Marlowe's  fiery  Tybalt  interrupted  my  thought 
and  restored  my  sense  of  things  present.  During  the 

183 


rapid  dialogue  that  followed,  my  wits  came  slowly 
back  to  me.  When  Will  drew  near,  at  last,  I  was  com- 
paratively calm;  yet  when  I  saw  his  eyes  looking  into 
mine,  with  the  old,  impassioned  light;  when  I  heard 
his  voice,  pregnant  with  love  and  reverence,  I  nearly 
lost  my  self-control  once  more. 

"If  I  profane  with  my  unworthiest  hand 
This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  fine  is  this: 
My  lips,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 
To  smooth  the  rough  touch  with  a  tender  kiss." 

Ah,  and  if  he  knew  whose  lips  had  last  touched 
mine!  Hurriedly,  mechanically,  I  gave  Juliet's  reply, 
and  I  fear  that  all  her  light  speeches  were  delivered 
somewhat  heavily.  My  relief  was  great  when  the  brief 
dialogue  ended  and  I  was  able  to  leave  Will's  side. 
Ah,  what  a  lover,  what  a  traitor !  cried  my  heart.  Little 
wonder  he  could  act  passion  so  well.  He  had  had  good 
practice ;  and  all  my  pent-up  sorrow  and  anguish  found 
vent  in  the  words  I  cried  to  the  Nurse: 

"Go  ask  his  name.    If  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  prove  my  wedding-bed." 

If  this  scene  were  difficult,  how  much  more  was 

184 


Juliet's  wooing  on  the  balcony.  Alack!  could  I  ever 
play  this  part  again,  with  its  numberless  suggestions 
of  the  dear  had  been?  Natheless,  once  undertaken,  it 
must  be  gone  through  with  somehow,  and  so  from 
Juliet's  balcony  was  sighed  forth,  that  day,  Anne  Hath- 
away's  soul.  That  scene,  which  I  had  helped  to  make, 
what  sorrow  it  brought  me  now!  In  the  old,  happy 
days  Will  had  told  me  that  the  first  idea  of  his  Juliet 
was  dawning  upon  him  when  he  met  me;  and  that 
afterwards  he  wrote  as  if  inspired.  Mine,  then,  were 
Juliet's  sudden  love  and  heavenly  wooing;  mine,  her 
hasty  marriage;  ay,  and  mine,  too,  when  my  task  was 
ended,  would  be,  I  hoped,  her  tragic  death.  But  Romeus 
would  not  lie  beside  her  then. 

At  length  the  scene  ended,  leaving  me  faint  and 
wavering  with  the  effort  it  had  cost  me.  What  mock- 
ery were  the  words  that  Will's  voice  sent  after  me  as 
I  staggered  from  my  balcony: 

"Sleep  dwell  on  thine  eyes,  peace  on  thy  breast! 
Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest." 

"Thou  art  doing  well,  Cesario,"  cried  Jonson's 
kindly  voice,  as  I  left  the  stage.  He  came  to  me  and 
held  out  his  hand.  "If  thou  dost  go  on  as  thou  hast 

185 


begun,  thy  fortune's  made!"  Alack!  how  little  he 
knew  what  would  make  my  fortune;  a  man's  smile,  a 
man's  love.  I  tried  to  thank  him,  somewhat  wearily. 
Burbadge  looked  at  me  compassionately. 

"Thou'rt  tired,  lad,"  he  said.  "'Twill  be  some 
time  before  thou  wilt  appear  again,  so  rest  thee.  I  add 
my  congratulations  to  Ben's.  I  shall  ask  Will  to  lend 
thee  to  me  when  he  finishes  the  play  of  which  he  talks 
now;  a  new  version  of  the  story  of  Prince  Hamlet. 
There's  a  mad,  love-lorn  girl  in  it  that  thou  wouldst 
do  well,  I  know." 

"Ay,"  I  answered,  laughing  somewhat  hysterically; 
"I  thank  thee,  Master  Burbadge,  thou  art  right;  such 
a  part  as  that — a  mad,  love-lorn  girl — I  love  right  well 
to  play."  And  with  that  I  left  them,  for  I  felt  that  if 
I  stayed  a  moment  longer  the  audience  would  not  wait 
for  Hamlet  to  see  a  mad,  love-lorn  girl  rush  upon  the 
stage. 

The  play  went  on.  Mercutio  was  done  with  fine 
effect  by  Burbadge,  and  the  brilliant,  witty  part  after- 
wards became  a  favorite  with  the  London  people.  Droll 
Will  Kempe  made  the  Nurse  utterly  humorous,  and  my 
scenes  with  him  were  a  delight,  for  they  relieved  the 
strain  to  which  I  was  subjected  while  acting  with  Will. 

1 86 


At  length  the  wedding  in  the  Friar's  cell  was  cele- 
brated; and  then,  suddenly,  the  performance  was 
brought  to  a  standstill.  Kit  Marlowe  had  disappeared. 

During  the  alarmed  turmoil  that  followed,  while 
they  searched  for  him,  I  went  once  more  to  the  cur- 
tains and  glanced  out  at  the  audience.  In  the  agita- 
tions of  the  play  I  had  forgotten  about  the  singular 
conjunction  of  Sir  John  and  Robin  Greene  in  the  audi- 
ence. As  I  looked  out  at  the  pit  again,  however,  1 
remembered  it,  and  my  eye  sought  them  once  more. 
Robin  Greene  had  come  close  to  the  stage,  and  was 
standing  there  with  an  expectant  look  on  his  petulant 
face.  Sir  John  had  disappeared. 

Scarce  had  I  time  to  wonder  at  his  absence  when 
my  attention  was  again  withdrawn  from  the  audience. 
Kempe  entered,  sputtering  and  angry,  bringing  with 
him  Marlowe,  much  the  worse  for  liquor. 

"There  he  sat,"  he  began  in  a  furious  tone,  so  in 
contrast  with  his  costume  as  the  Nurse  that  it  was  very 
ludicrous;  "there  he  sat,  drinking  with  Jack  Falstaff, 
as  if  there  were  no  play  in  progress.  Jack  was  telling 
his  best  stories  and  Kit  was  pouring  wine  down  his 
throat,  and  applauding.  Thou  renegade!  What  hast 
thou  to  say  for  thyself?" 

187 


But  Marlowe  had  turned  sulky  and  refused  to 
speak.  Will,  much  relieved  at  sight  of  him,  said  a  few 
pacific  words,  and,  after  some  experiments  to  see 
whether  Marlowe  were  sufficiently  sober  to  go  through 
the  scene,  the  play  went  on. 

It  had  not  continued  long,  however,  before  Mar- 
lowe's sorry  plight  was  discovered  by  the  nobles, 
and  they  burst  into  derisive  laughter  and  satirical  gibes, 
which  were  taken  up  in  rougher  fashion  by  the  pit. 
This,  perhaps,  sobered  Marlowe,  who  was  accustomed 
to  being  a  favorite.  At  any  rate,  the  wavering  motion 
left  his  legs,  and  in  the  ensuing  duel  with  Mercutio  he 
fought  magnificently.  Finally  Burbadge  dropped  in 
his  supposed  death  agony,  and  Marlowe  made  his  exit. 
A  few  moments  later,  in  response  to  Romeus's  taunt, 
he  re-entered,  and  the  second  duel  began. 

I  was  watching  from  the  side,  where  I  could  see 
at  once  both  the  scene  and  the  spectators.  It  seemed 
to  me  the  mock-duel  was  lasting  longer  than  it  should. 
Involuntarily,  I  turned  and  looked  at  the  audience. 
Robin  Greene  was  close  to  the  stage  now.  His  neck 
was  craned  forward,  and  upon  his  face  was  an  expres- 
sion of  eager,  delighted  malice.  I  heard  murmurs 
among  the  nobles.  I  looked  again  at  the  combat  on 

1 88 


the  stage.    The  truth  came  to  me  with  overwhelming 
conviction.     'Twas  no  play  duel  being  fought  there: 
and  the  mimic  tragedy  was  like  to  prove  a  real  one. 
I  could  not  move,  I  could  not  cry  out.    I  stood  in 

agony,  my  eyes  fixed  upon  the  flashing  swords.  An 
instant  later,  that  which  I  looked  for  came.  Will  fell, 
with  a  half-suppressed  groan,  the  blood  streaming. 
Marlowe  threw  away  his  rapier  and  stood  in  a  gran- 
diloquent attitude,  a  look  of  drunken  triumph  on  his 
face.  The  nobles  on  the  stage  arose,  horrified.  The 
actors  crowded  about  Will's  prostrate  figure.  The  pit, 
not  realizing  yet  that  the  play  was  otherwise  than  as 
written,  applauded  frantically. 

As  for  me,  limbs  and  tongue  suddenly  seemed 
loosened.  With  a  scream  I  ran  forward,  and,  pushing 
all  the  rest  aside,  knelt  beside  Will,  striving  to  stanch 
the  blood  in  whose  plenteous  stream  his  life  seemed 
flowing  forth. 


apfer  ( 


At  the  end  of  a  beauti- 
ful summer  afternoon,  two 
months  later,  I  sat  by  the 
window  in  Will's  lodgings, 

gazing  out  at  the  quiet  street  beyond.  Will  lay  asleep 
upon  the  bed,  pale,  wasted,  yet  more  like  his  former 
self  than  he  had  been  for  many  weeks.  The  room  was 
very  still,  and  my  thoughts  were  busy,  as  I  looked 
dreamily  at  the  narrow,  deserted  street  and  the  soar- 
ing spire  of  St.  Helen's,  visible  far  above  the  many 
roofs.  The  ordinary,  peaceful  scene  upon  which  my 
bodily  eyes  rested  was  assuredly  in  contrast  to  the 
tumultuous  ones  that  my  spirit's  vision  beheld. 

First  I  recalled  the  end  of  that  dreadful  duel  upon 
the  stage.  I  remembered  how,  at  length,  thanks  to 
Master  Burbadge's  cool  head  and  wise  directions,  a 
doctor  had  been  secured  and  Will's  wound  cared  for. 
Then  Master  Jonson  had  dismissed  the  audience,  mak- 
ing light  of  the  accident,  although  his  kindly  heart  was 
full  of  anxiety.  When  he  returned  to  Will's  side,  how- 

193 


ever,  he  met  good  news.  The  doctor  had  pronounced 
the  hurt  serious,  but  not  mortal,  and  had  said  that 
with  careful  nursing  he  would  be  himself  again  within 
a  few  months.  Count  William  at  once  cried  out  that 
his  house  should  be  his  friend's  shelter;  but,  mucb  to 
my  relief,  the  doctor  shook  his  head.  Strange  sur- 
roundings might  aggravate  his  illness.  His  own  lodg- 
ings would  be  more  favorable  to  his  speedy  recovery. 

So  at  length  it  was  settled  that  Will  should  be  re- 
moved to  his  room  in  the  precinct  of  St.  Helen's,  and 
that  I  should  be  his  nurse.  I  was  pale  and  quiet  by 
this  time,  not  knowing  how  far  I  had  betrayed  my 
secret  in  my  first  outburst  of  alarm  and  agony.  In 
response  to  Count  William's  inquiry  whether  I  would 
act  as  nurse  I  nodded  assent,  and  forthwith  Will  was 
laid  upon  a  hastily  devised  stretcher, '  and  several  of 
the  actors  took  it  up,  ready  to  carry  to  his  lodgings. 
As  they  did  so,  Burbadge  glanced  around  him. 

"Marlowe!"  he  said,  as  he  lifted  his  share  of  the 
burden,  "Marlowe  has  disappeared." 

Count  William  set  his  teeth,  with  an  ugly  look. 

"Ay,"  he  answered;  "in  the  turmoil  he  hath  made 
good  his  escape.  I  will  find  him,  fear  not.  There  is 
a  law  against  duelling.  He  shall  feel  its  weight." 

194 


gSVhakgsPcareTl 


The  Count's  words  aroused  me  from  my  lethargy. 

"Find  also,  then,  Robin  Greene  and  Jack  Falstaff," 
I  said,  speaking  in  a  forced,  toneless  voice;  "find  also 
Robin  Greene  and  Jack  Falstaff." 

He  looked  at  me  in  amazement.  "Why,  lad?"  he 
said,  gently.  "Why  dost  thou  say  so?" 

I  shook  my  head  and  passed  my  hand  across  my 
brow,  with  a  bewildered  gesture. 

"I  cannot  tell  thee  now,"  I  said.  "Somehow  the 
words  will  not  come.  But  do  as  I  beg,  prythee,  Count 
William.  Find  also  Robin  Greene  and  Jack  Falstaff." 

And  with  that  the  sentence  died  upon  my  lips,  as 
a  strange  thing  happened.  The  actors  had  borne  their 
burden  carefully  and  tenderly  as  far  as  the  entrance  to 
the  street.  There  they  set  the  stretcher  down,  in  order 
to  unbar  the  door. 

The  movement,  perhaps,  caused  Will  to  regain  his 
consciousness.  At  any  rate,  he  stirred.  Noticing  this, 
instantly  I  rushed  to  his  side,  and  saw  that  his  eyes 
were  open.  They  met  mine,  with  a  look  of  entire,  de- 
lighted recognition.  Then,  in  a  weak,  far-away  voice 
he  breathed  my  name. 

"Nan,"  he  said,  softly,  tenderly,  as  if  for  me  alone; 
and  then  again,  more  faintly:  "Nan  —  sweetheart  -  " 

195 


And  then  he  sighed,  his  eyes  closed  and  he  re- 
lapsed into  unconsciousness  once  more. 

I  had  much  ado  to  control  myself.  Methinks  I 
had  cared  little  then  had  my  identity  been  instantly 
discovered.  Master  Burbadge  glanced  at  Master  Jon- 
son  significantly.  I  remembered  that  he  knew  of  my 
existence,  probably  of  Will's  marriage.  Count  William 
had  not  heard  the  words.  Naught  was  said,  however, 
and  without  further  delay  we  started  on  our  slow 
journey  to  Will's  lodgings. 

And  then,  after  that  terrible  afternoon,  for  two 
brief  months,  my  love  was  all  mine  again.  My  love! 
Ay,  though  faithless  to  me,  he  was  always  and  forever 
my  own  and  only  love.  The  light  of  my  eyes,  the  glory 
of  my  life,  was  restored  to  me  for  a  brief  space.  It 
was  enough.  I  rejoiced  that  I  had  come  to  London. 
When  he  was  himself  again  the  Countess  would  claim 
him;  but  now,  now — he  was  mine,  all  mine. 

In  his  delirium  he  had  never  mentioned  either  my 
name  or  hers.  His  talk  was  all  of  the  theatre,  and 
plays,  and  parts.  Not  once  did  any  Stratford  name 
or  place  cross  his  lips.  Of  Count  William  and  of  the 
various  actors  he  talked  freely,  although  in  rambling 
fashion.  He  seemed  to  recognize  me  as  my  assumed 

196 


self  and  called  me  Cesario.  This  relieved  me  much,  for 
I  did  not  choose  that  he  should  know  me  yet.  Lately, 
however,  his  delirium  had  ceased,  and  as  he  began  to 
gain  strength  he  had  said  little.  To-day,  for  the  first 
time,  he  had  shown  a  desire  to  talk  at  length,  but  I 
had  discouraged  him,  as  the  doctor  bade  me. 

Naught  had  been  heard  of  Greene  or  Falstaff  since 
that  day  when  Will  was  wounded.  When  I  had  grown 
calmer  I  had  told  Count  William  my  reasons  for  sus- 
pecting them,  and  he  had  deemed  them  good.  Despite 
constant  searching,  however,  he  had  so  far  been  un- 
successful. This  was  the  more  remarkable  because 
of  FalstafTs  unusual  appearance.  We  concluded,  at 
length,  that  both  must  have  left  the  city. 

Marlowe,  with  ready  and  repentant  nobility,  had 
come  to  Count  William  and  given  himself  up  when  he 
had  recovered  from  his  drunken  brawl  and  had  learned 
of  Will's  condition.  Count  William  had  promptly 
caused  his  imprisonment,  and  he  was  still  a  captive,  so 
far  as  I  knew.  I  could  not  help  regretting  this,  for 
Marlowe  had  excellent  and  generous  qualities,  despite 
his  failings;  and  in  this  case  I  felt  that  his  weaknesses 
had  made  him  merely  the  tool  of  others.  As  usual, 
the  least  guilty  suffered,  while  the  really  culpable 


I  drew  my  brows  together  in  a  little  frown  of  per- 
plexity as  I  thought  this,  staring  out  at  the  placid  sky; 
and  suddenly  I  was  startled  by  a  voice  from  the  bed. 

"What's  the  problem,  Cesario?  Sooth,  there  are 
many  in  this  weary  coil  of  our  mortal  life."  I  heard 
an  impatient  sigh.  "Come  hither  and  talk  to  me,  lad." 
He  smiled  teasingly.  "Truly,  thou  must  get  that  ugly 
frown  from  thy  face,  or  no  sweet  woman  wilt  thou  ever 
play  again.  Thou  lookest  now  more  like  Kit  Mar- 
lowe's Tamburlaine." 

I  smiled  and  shook  my  head  as  I  came  obediently 
and  sat  beside  him. 

"Nay,"  I  said,  somewhat  rashly,  "no  play  of  Mar- 
lowe's will  I  ever  act  in,  nor  of  Robin  Greene's, 

neither "  and  then  I  paused  rather  abruptly,  for  I 

feared  my  words  were  imprudent. 

He  looked  at  me  curiously.  "Whence  this  rage 
against  Kit  and  Robin — ah,  I  think  I  know!  Help  my 
memory,  Cesario.  'Twas  Kit  wounded  me,  was't  not?" 

He  spoke  slowly,  falteringly,  as  if  tormented  by 
a  half-formed  recollection.  I  took  quick  counsel  with 
myself.  Then  I  decided  that  uncertainty  would  be 
worse  for  him  than  to  know  all.  So  forthwith  I  began 
and  told  him  everything  with  which  my  thoughts  had 

198 


just  been  busy;  of  the  real  duel  that  had  replaced  the 
mock  one;  of  the  share  that  I  thought  Greene  and  Fal- 
staff  had  played  in  it;  and  of  how  Marlowe  had  given 
himself  up  and  now  lay  in  prison,  by  Count  William's 
command. 

He  started  when  I  said  this.  "Nay,"  he  said,  with 
energy;  "that  is  ill  done  of  Count  William;  Marlowe, 
too,  could  have  eluded  justice ;  instead,  he  yielded  him- 
self up,  and  should  have  met  with  mercy.  Well,  the 
remedy  will  come  soon.  I  will  speak  with  Count 
William.  The  London  stage  needs  Marlowe.  He " 

Will  broke  off  an  instant  and  lay  gazing  with 
bright,  unseeing  eyes  at  the  blue  sky  beyond  the  win- 
dow, which  had  now  begun  to  darken  into  twilight. 

"He  writes  wondrous  plays,"  he  continued  at 
length,  quietly.  "Thou'st  been  at  Paul's,  lad,  when 
the  organ  is  pealing  forth,  and  when  the  music  rolls 
in  mighty,  majestic  waves  towards  heaven.  E'en  such 
is  Marlowe's  verse — verse  that  I  have  not  yet  equalled, 
perhaps  never  shall." 

He  paused,  then  continued  in  a  lighter  tone:  "As 
for  Robin  Greene — he  is  a  mere  boy,  and  no  doubt  is 
frightened  to  death  now  at  the  result  of  his  plot.  He, 

too,  must  be  spared.  But  Jack  Falstaff "  his  tone 

199 


grew  stern — "Jack  Falstaff  is  a  man,  and  should  have 
known  better.  Besides,  Robin  Greene  was  my  declared 
enemy;  Jack,  my  pretended  friend." 

He  paused  again  for  a  moment;  then  his  brows 
contracted,  as  if  at  some  puzzling  memory. 

"The  miniature?"  he  said,  looking  at  me.  "That 
miniature?  Hast  it  still?" 

I  started  as  if  stung.  He  had  been  speaking  of 
mercy  to  all  who  had  injured  him,  and  now,  for  me, 
whose  heart  lay  beneath  his  feet,  he  had  naught  but 
cruelty,  unconscious  yet  most  bitter.  "Ay,"  I  said  in 
a  low  voice,  and  turned  away  my  face  from  him.  The 
afternoon  had  passed  now,  and  the  sky  had  darkened 
into  night.  The  outline  of  the  houses  was  misty. 

"Hath  she "  he  paused  an  instant — "hath  she 

ever  been  here?" 

"Nay,"  I  said,  shortly;  then  added,  unwillingly, 
"but  I  have  heard  Count  William  say  that  she  hath  in- 
quired oft  as  to  thy  well-being." 

He  was  silent.  I  had  my  head  turned  from  him 
and  could  not  see  his  face.  At  length  he  sighed.  "Well, 
the  miniature/'  he  said.  "Let's  see  it,  lad.  Little  did 
I  deem,  when  I  sent  thee  for  it,  that  'twould  be  so 
long  before  mine  eyes  beheld  it." 


Obediently  I  drew  it  forth  from  the  place  in  my 
bosom  where  it  had  rested  many  weeks.  Little  had  I 
thought,  either,  that  its  hated  presence  would  be  near 
me  for  so  long.  It  was  still  upon  the  chain  which  had 
held  it  when  she  gave  it  me.  I  freed  it  from  my  neck 
and  laid  the  porcelain  trifle  in  his  hand. 

"A  light,"  he  said.  "Bring  hither  a  candle,  Cesario." 

I  obeyed.  He  lifted  the  miniature  feebly  and  held 
it  so  that  he  could  gaze  at  it.  Thus  he  lay  long,  but 
at  last  he  broke  silence. 

"A  fair  face,  Cesario,"  he  said;  "a  fair  face.  Is't 
the  mirror  of  as  fair  a  soul?" 

He  spoke  as  if  to  himself  rather  than  to  me,  but  I 
answered. 

"I  know  not,"  I  said;  then  added,  desperately, 
"Count  William  deems  it  so." 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face. 

"Ay,  I  know,"  he  answered,  gently,  and  again 
gazed  reflectively  at  the  painted  bit  of  porcelain.  The 
eyes,  insolent,  yet  dreamy,  looked  back  at  him.  The 
lustreless  raven  hair  lay  heavy  over  the  white  brow. 
The  countenance  was  mocking,  elusive,  as  in  life 

"A  fair  face,"  he  said  again,  musingly.  "Methinks 
I  have  never  seen  a  fairer." 


I  blew  out  the  candle  with  a  quick  breath  and 
answered  his  words  on  impulse.  Why  I  spoke  as  I  did 
I  know  not.  Methinks  the  pent-up  jealousy  and  an- 
guish of  months  suddenly  burst  the  bounds  so  sternly 
set  before  them. 

"Thou  didst  deem  otherwise  once,"  I  said,  and 
gazed  out  into  the  night  with  tragic  eyes.  The  world 
was  dark  now,  ah,  very  dark !  Even  so,  the  sun  of  my 
life  had  set,  and  soon  the  night  of  death  and  darkness 
would  encompass  me.  The  river — the  river  lay  near, 
flowing — flowing  swiftly  to  the  sea.  It  bore  many 
things  upon  its  bosom.  What  if  I  entrusted  to  its 
kindly  care  a  broken  heart,  a  weary  body 

Will  started  at  my  words.  I  could  feel  his  eyes 
upon  me. 

"What  mean'st  thou?"  he  said,  imperiously. 
"What  mean'st  thou?" 

I  did  not  turn  from  the  window.  "The  face  of 
the  Countess  is  fair,  indeed,"  I  said;  "dusky  as  night  is 
her  hair — as  a  night  without  stars.  Her  eyes— fathom- 
less wells  of  truth? — of  falsehood? — who  shall  read 
them?  Ay,  she  is  fair;  but  once  thou  didst  find  charm, 
master,  in  a  different  face." 

I  heard  the  quick  turn  of  his  body  in  the  bed  be- 


hind  me,  his  fast,  irregular  breathing;  but  he  did  not 
speak. 

"  'Twas  a  face,"  I  went  on,  "a  face  sorrowful,  yet 
fair ;  at  least,  so  thou  didst  call  it  once.  Her  eyes  were 
very  dark — and  sad,  until  thou  didst  come  into  her  life. 
Then  they  grew  joyous  for  a  while.  I  wonder  if  they 
be  sad  now.  Her  hair  was  golden " 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  sharp  cry.  "Where  didst 
thou  learn  all  this?"  he  queried. 

I  went  on,  unheeding  the  appeal  in  his  voice. 

"Men  say  she  went  mad  for  love — poor  fool!  Tis 
woman's  way.  What  matter?  Thou  hast  the  Countess 
now." 

Again  he  cried  out,  in  a  way  that  startled  me — 
imperious,  bewildered: 

"How  knowest  thou  this;  how  knowest  thou?" 

But  I  was  looking  out  into  the  night,  and  I  did 
not  turn. 

"  "Will  he  not  come  again?    Will  he  not  come  again?' 

"Thus  she  sang,"  I  said.  "  'Tis  passing  sad,  her 
story.  I  had  it  from  a  Stratford  lad." 

I  turned  now  and  looked  at  him.  The  room  was 
too  dark  for  us  to  see  each  other,  but  I  felt  his  eyes 

203 


ESlfhake spcare&l  _  gfllwc  efrk^g) 

striving  to  search  my  face.  He  had  risen  into  a  half- 
sitting  position.  He  sank  back  now  with  a  deep,  long- 
drawn  sigh. 

"Thou  know'st  my  story  in  some  strange  way," 
he  said  in  a  low,  trembling  voice.  "Has  she  written  in 
these  months?" 

"Nay,"  I  answered,  truthfully. 

"Can  aught  be  wrong?"  he  murmured.  "Thou 
know'st  Stratford,  then,  lad.  Light  the  candles  and 
tell  me  more." 

As  I  obeyed  the  first  part  of  his  command,  wonder- 
ing how  I  could  evade  the  second,  a  shadow  fell  across 
the  threshold. 

"Well,  prince  of  poets,"  exclaimed  a  rich,  lazy 
voice  that  we  both  knew  well,  "how  goes  the  world 
with  thee?" 

She  swept  a  magnificent  curtsey,  and  came  for- 
ward into  the  light. 

It  was  the  Countess,  fair  and  stately,  her  crimson 
robes  sweeping  the  floor,  her  velvet  cloak  half  falling 
from  her  shoulders.  For  an  instant  she  stood  thus; 
then  Will  spoke  in  a  voice  curiously  suppressed. 

"Be  seated,  Countess,"  he  said.  "Cesario,  fetch 
hither  a  chair."  He  paused  an  instant  as  I  obeyed 

204 


him,  glancing  from  the  Countess's  face  to  mine  with 
evident  indecision.  Then,  in  a  curiously  apologetic 
tone,  he  continued: 

"St.  Helen's  is  near.    Go  thither,  Cesario,  and  wait 
upon  the  church  steps  until  I  send  for  thee." 


iinapter  I 


Furiously,  blindly,  I 
stumbled  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  night.  So 
insensible  was  I  to  all  things 
except  the  inward  fire  of  my 
jealous  rage  that  I  saw  and 
heard  naught  until  I  had 
been  seated  for  some  time 
on  the  broad  steps  of  St.  Helen's. 

The  corner  I  had  chosen  was  mercifully  obscure, 
and  there,  crouched  upon  the  unyielding  stone,  I  wept 
and  ground  my  teeth  and  clenched  my  fists  in  impotent, 
overwhelming  despair.  There,  in  the  well-lit  room  she, 
the  beautiful  sorceress,  sat  with  him,  while  here  in  the 
darkness  I  lay,  alone.  Who  and  what  was  she,  this 
shameless,  gorgeous  woman,  who,  despite  her  noble 
title,  her  costly  attire,  came  at  nightfall,  unattended, 
to  a  man's  lodgings?  Why  had  she  come?  Wherefore 
had  I  been  sent  away?  A  flood  of  conjectures  and  un- 
certainties overwhelmed  my  brain. 

It  was  very  dark  on  the  church  steps,  and  St. 
Helen's  was  a  quiet  district.  I  was  weary  and  un- 
strung in  mind  and  body.  Beyond  a  certain  point  of 
endurance  even  extreme  anguish  cannot  go.  At  length 

30Q 


nerves  and  brain  alike  relaxed.     My  hard  vigil  was 
ended  and  I  slept. 

How  long  I  thus  forgot  my  troubles  I  know  not. 
I  awoke  suddenly,  with  a  start.  The  church  was  light 
now,  and  within  I  heard  the  choir  practising.  Frag- 
ments of  an  anthem  floated  out,  interrupted  by  numer- 
ous silences,  during  which,  no  doubt,  the  choirmaster 
was  explaining  and  instructing.  I  lay  still  an  instant, 
listening  dully.  They  were  chanting  the  "Magnificat." 

"He  hath  showed  strength  with  His  arm :  He  hath  scattered 
the  proud  in  the  imagination  of  their  hearts." 

Thrice  were  the  words  repeated,  each  time  with 
some  slight  change  in  rendering,  due,  probably,  to  the 
choirmaster's  suggestion.  The  third  time  I  noticed 
languidly  that  one  of  the  church  doors  had  been  left 
open,  and  that  the  brightness  from  within  streamed 
past  the  corner  where  I  crouched,  out  into  the  street 
itself.  My  eyes  followed  the  shaft  of  light  and  I  sprang 
upright  with  a  cry.  In  its  full  radiance  stood  the 
Countess,  looking  at  me.  Her  crimson  draperies 
seemed,  in  my  excited  imagination,  to  radiate  flames. 

When  she  saw  me  looking  at  her,  in  scorn  and 
abhorrence,  she  held  out  her  hands  beseechingly. 


"Cesario!  Thou  cruel  one!"  she  barely  breathed 
in  a  tone  of  tenderest  reproach.  "Where  hast  thou 
been  all  these  long,  long  weeks?" 

I  raised  my  hands  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  her 
despicable  beauty,  her  devilish  charm. 

"Thou  hast  two  victims  already,  madam,"  I  said, 
and  I  took  no  pains  to  hide  my  disgust  and  hatred. 
"Thou  shalt  not  have  a  third.  I  return  to  my  master," 
and  I  moved  a  step  to  pass  her.  She  spread  out  her 
arms  to  bar  my  way.  I  could  not  go  without  creating 
an  outcry.  I  paused.  She  seized  my  hand  in  both  of 
hers,  and  I  felt  her  burning  lips  upon  it. 

"Ah,  Cesario,"  she  whispered,  "how  beautiful  are 
even  contempt  and  anger  on  thy  lips!  Nor  all  my  wit 
nor  reason  can  hide  my  passion  for  thee.  Cesario,  be 
not  cruel.  Men  have  deemed  me  beautiful.  Canst  not 
love  me  a  little,  even  a  little,  Cesario?  Many  have  sued 
me;  behold,  I  lay  my  heart  at  thy  feet;  it  is  thine! 
Wilt  thou  spurn  it?" 

The  choir  in  the  church  had  been  silent  for  a  space. 
Now  they  burst  forth  into  the  next  strain  of  the  "Mag- 
nificat." 

"He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  and  hath 
exalted  the  humble  and  meek." 


Methinks  I  was  half  mad  with  rage  and  despair, 
or  else  the  devil  himself  tempted  me  in  the  Countess's 
guise.  At  any  rate,  a  fiendish  plan  entered  my  mind 
that  instant;  a  cruel  scheme,  since  it  involved  the  hap- 
piness of  three  others  and  would  make  my  lot  no  better. 
Yet  my  idea  seemed  sweet  to  me  then  because  it  spelled 
revenge. 

The  holy  words  pealed  forth  again,  joyously: 

"He  hath  £ut  down  the  mighty  from  their  seat,  and  hath 
exalted  the  humble  and  meek." 

I  looked  at  the  Countess,  bending  her  proud  head 
before  me,  and  a  triumphant  smile  touched  my  lips. 
Now  I  shudder  to  think  how  I  applied  the  meaning  of 
those  sacred  words,  first  spoken  for  so  holy  a  reason; 
but  then  they  seemed  sent  from  heaven  to  suggest  to 
me  my  vengeance. 

The  Countess  looked  up  and  saw  my  smile.  Her 
face  lighted  with  joy,  and  she  drew  closer  to  me. 

"Thou  wilt  love  me,  Cesario?  Thou  wilt "  she 

hesitated  an  instant.  "Wilt  thou  even — wed  me?" 

"Listen,  madam,"  I  said,  and  I  put  my  arm  around 
her,  repugnant  as  the  touch  of  her  sinuous  body  was 
to  me.  She  gave  a  cry  of  joy  at  my  embrace,  and  clung 


to  me.  "Beseech  thee,  think  a  moment.  Thou  knowest 
me  not.  Remember,  I  warn  thee.  Thou  knowest  me 
not." 

Some  last  fragment  of  compunction  made  me  give 
her  this  hint.  She  was  too  blinded  by  her  inf  atuation, 
however,  to  heed  my  words. 

"It  matters  not,"  she  murmured,  and  she  laid  her 
dusky  head  upon  my  shoulder.  "It  matters  not  who 
thou  art.  I  love  thee." 

"Enough,  then,  madam,"  I  responded.  I  stood. 
holding  her  in  my  arms,  my  eyes  staring  straight  for- 
ward in  cold,  unseeing  fashion  as  I  elaborated  my  plan, 
"Enough!  I  make  thee,  then,  this  promise.  At  Michael- 
mas I  will  go  to  church  with  thee." 

She  gave  a  little  cry,  half  delight,  half  disappoint- 
ment. 

"So  long  to  wait!  Ah,  Cesario!  Why  not  to- 
morrow?" 

"Because,  madam,"  I  answered,  steadily,  "neither 
Count  William  nor  my  master  must  know  aught  of  this 
until  after — after  I  have  been  at  church  with  thee."  I 
held  carefully  to  the  phrase  I  had  chosen.  "At  Michael- 
mas it  is  rumored  that  her  Gracious  Majesty  will  re- 
quest a  performance  of  Romeus  and  Juliet  at  the  palace. 

313 


If  that  prove  true,  I  am  bound  to  act  Juliet,  and  I  can- 
not— go  to  church  with  thee — until  that  day." 

"But  why,"  she  whispered,  "why  not  wed  me  to- 
morrow, and  let  the  marriage  remain  a  secret  until 
Michaelmas?" 

"Because,  madam,"  I  said,  again,  "because,  after 
I  have  been  at  church  with  thee,  methinks  I  shall  not 
act  Juliet  nor  any  other  part  again." 

She  looked  at  me  in  deep  thought,  her  eyes  nar- 
rowing. For  an  instant  she  seemed  again  the  haughty, 
wary  creature  I  had  seen  beneath  the  willows  at  Strat- 
ford. Then  her  face  relaxed,  and  she  smiled  and  sighed 
together.  No  wonder  she  could  play  with  men's  hearts. 

"Be  it  so,"  she  whispered  low,  in  that  voice  which 
was  liquid  music.  She  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder 
once  again.  "Cesario,  Cesario,  must  I  do  all  the  woo- 
ing? Give  me  my  betrothal  kiss." 

I  bent  my  lips  and  touched  hers  calmly. 

"Until  Michaelmas,  then,  adieu,  Countess,"  I  said. 

She  drew  herself  erect  instantly. 

"Until  Michaelmas,"  she  repeated.  "Shall  I  not 
see  thee  until  then?  Oh,  Cesario,  be  not  cruel!" 

"No,  madam,"  I  answered,  firmly,  for  on  this  point 
I  was  determined  to  have  my  way;  else  the  rest  of  my 

314 


plans  might  miscarry.  "Bethink  thee  and  thou  wilt 
see  that  I  am  wise.  Should  we  be  meeting  constantly, 
suspicion  assuredly  would  be  aroused.  We  desire  no 
hint  of  our  undertaking  to  escape — until  Michaelmas." 

She  bent  her  beautiful  head  and  stood  a  moment 
in  troubled  silence,  biting  her  red  lips  and  clenching 
her  hands.  At  length  she  roused  herself  with  a  sigh. 

"Thou  art  right,"  she  said.  "Thou  art  right, 
Cesario.  Farewell,  then,  until  we  meet  again  on  the 
morning  of  Michaelmas.  Let  our  wedding  take  place 
at  Paul's.  'Tis  a  church  I  love  well." 

I  agreed,  for  it  mattered  little  what  place  she  chose 
for  a  marriage  that  would  never  take  place.  Again  she 
offered  me  her  lips. 

"Until  Michaelmas,  adieu,"  she  murmured,  as  I 
once  more  kissed  her.  Then  she  went  down  the  church 
steps,  her  crimson  gown  brilliant  in  the  light  that 
streamed  from  the  still  open  door.  The  choir  had 
finished  the  "Magnificat"  long  since,  but  now  they  were 
going  over  bits  that  the  exacting  master  had  found 
unsatisfactory. 

As  the  Countess,  brilliant  as  an  evil  spirit,  lithe 
as  a  panther,  passed  from  my  view,  these  words  floated 
after  her: 

215 


"He  hath  filled  the  hungry  with  good  things,  and  the  rich 
He  hath  sent  empty  away." 

I  fell  upon  my  knees  in  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing. There,  yonder,  she  went,  the  rich  woman,  and 
how  empty  was  the  prospect  towards  which  she  looked 
with  joy  so  delirious!  And  I — I,  kneeling  here  upon 
the  church  steps — ah,  how  good  was  the  revenge  which 
satisfied  the  hunger  of  my  hatred! 


I  found  Will  asleep 
when  I  returned  that  night, 
and  the  next  morning  he 
did  not  mention  the  Countess,  nor  did  I.  In  a  few 
days  we  were  both  busy  with  thoughts  of  the  coming 
performance  at  the  palace.  The  command  had,  indeed, 
been  sent  by  her  Majesty  that  our  company  should 
play  Romeus  and  Juliet  before  her;  and  Will  was  like 
a  boy  in  his  delight  Master  Jonson  and  Master  Bur- 
badge  shared  his  pleasure  with  unselfish  joy,  and,  in- 
deed, all  the  company  seemed  glad  that  their  comrade 
had  such  an  honor  bestowed  upon  him.  The  only 
drawback  was  Will's  bodily  condition;  but  that  im- 
proved steadily  from  the  time  the  Queen's  command 
arrived,  and  the  doctor  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  Will 
would  be  fully  able  to  play  by  Michaelmas.  So,  as 
soon  as  possible,  he  and  I  were  once  more  rehearsing 
our  old  familiar  parts  as  lovers. 

The  first  time  Will  left  his  room,  he  went  with 


Count  William  to  the  prison  and  ordered  Marlowe's 
release.  What  was  said  at  that  time  I  never  knew; 
but  thenceforth  Marlowe  treated  Will  with  a  dog-like 
fidelity  and  devotion  touching  to  see,  and  singular  in 
one  of  his  haughty  carriage  and  careless  manners. 
Robin  Greene  and  Jack  Falstaff  had  not  yet  been  heard 
of.  They  seemed  to  have  buried  themselves  in  the 
earth. 

During  those  weeks  I  never  saw  the  Countess. 
She  was  faithful  to  our  compact;  and  Will  did  not  speak 
of  her.  I  wondered  a  little  at  this,  but  finally  concluded 
that  the  excitements  of  the  preparation  for  the  palace 
had  driven  her  temporarily  from  his  mind.  To  me  she 
seemed  like  a  nightmare;  one  that  had  tormented  me 
in  the  past,  that  would  come  again,  but  which  now 
was  not.  I  tried  to  forget  her  until  Michaelmas. 

The  miniature  had  disappeared.  I  never  saw  it  on 
Will's  person,  and  I  thought  he  must  have  it  hidden 
among  some  secret  treasures.  I  tormented  myself  for 
awhile  with  conjectures  about  this,  but  finally  dis- 
missed them  with  a  shrug.  At  Michaelmas,  if  my  plan 
prospered,  all  would  become  clear. 

And  at  length  September,  cool  and  beautiful,  came, 
passed,  was  nearly  ended.  The  Feast  of  St.  Michael 


and  All  Angels  dawned,  and  with  it  the  thought  of 
my  revenge. 

As  I  finished  dressing  that  morning  I  saw,  slipped 
under  my  door,  a  small,  flat  package  secured  by  a  crim- 
son ribbon.  Inside  was  a  lock  of  lustreless  raven  hair 
tied  with  a  blood-colored  love  knot.  'Twas  at  once  a 
token  and  a  reminder,  as  I  knew  well.  Had  there  been 
a  fire  at  hand  I  would  have  burned  the  accursed  thing. 
I  dared  not  leave  it  lying  in  my  room.  I  thrust  it  into 
my  bosom,  with  loathing. 

We  were  to  be  at  the  theatre  at  noon.  The  day 
before  I  had  begged  Count  William  and  Will  to  meet 
me  at  the  entrance  to  Paul's  at  ten.  They  had  mar- 
velled at  my  request,  and  Will  had  demurred  slightly, 
since  it  would  be  a  busy  morning  for  him.  At  length, 
however,  when  I  said  the  matter  was  urgent,  they  con- 
sented, and  so  everything  pointed  to  a  successful  con- 
summation of  my  plans. 

I  broke  my  fast  but  frugally  that  morning.  I  was 
filled  with  alternate  dread  and  triumph.  Soon,  soon 
would  come  the  hour  for  my  revenge.  Then — Marlowe 
indeed  had  stabbed  Will's  body;  but  I  would  kill  his 
heart.  Alack,  alack!  in  what  a  coil  was  I  involved. 
Natheless,  I  could  not  bear  my  anguish  longer!  I 


could  not!  And,  starting  up  with  the  thought,  I  threw 
down  a  coin  to  pay  for  the  food  I  had  eaten,  and 
rushed  away  to  fulfill  my  appointment. 

It  was  just  ten  as  I  neared  Paul's,  and,  prompt  as 
I  was,  the  Countess  had  reached  there  before  me.  I 
noted,  with  relief,  that  neither  Count  William  nor  Will 
was  with  her.  I  did  not  desire  that  they  should  come 
too  soon. 

When  she  saw  me,  she  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  me,  regardless  of  the  numerous  passers-by.  Paul's 
is  a  busy  place,  and  its  nave  is  a  fashionable  promenade. 
We  were  quite  near  the  entrance. 

"Cesario,"  she  cried  in  a  joyous  undertone;  "at 
last,  at  last!  Didst  receive  my  token?  Is  all  ar- 
ranged?" 

"Ay,  madam,"  I  said,  truthfully,  although  I  had 
engaged  no  priest,  which  was  what  she  meant;  "ay, 
madam,  but  we  must  wait  a  little.  I  have  invited  two 

friends — as  witnesses "  I  turned  to  look  for  them, 

and  the  words  I  had  been  about  to  speak  remained  un- 
uttered.  I  saw  Will  and  the  Count  approaching.  Her 
gaze  followed  mine.  She  caught  her  breath  inward 
with  a  sharp  sound,  and  looked  at  me  piercingly, 
piteously.  For  a  moment  I  was  sorry  for  her. 


There  was  an  instant's  silence.  "What  means 
this?"  she  said  at  length,  in  a  quick,  incisive  whisper. 
"What  means  this?" 

"It  means,  madam,"  I  answered,  "that  the  comedy 
is  near  its  close." 

I  caught  her  hand  and  held  it,  despite  her  wild 
effort  to  withdraw  it. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  cried,  although  still  in  a  low  tone. 
"Art  mad,  Cesario?" 

"No,  madam,"  I  said,  and  I  caught  her  other  hand, 
thus  making  her  my  prisoner;  "I  am  not  mad  now, 
although  I  have  been,  and  may  be.  Natheless,  I  hope 
my  remedy  is  near." 

And  thus  we  stood  until  the  Count  and  Will 
reached  us. 

"What  unwilling  fair  one  hast  thou  there,  Cesario?" 
called  Will,  his  face  alight  with  mischief.  The  Coun- 
tess had  averted  her  face  and  he  did  not  recognize  her 
at  once.  Count  William  opened  his  lips  to  fling  a  gay 
gibe  at  me,  but  closed  them  with  the  jest  unuttered. 
Will  gave  a  sharp  exclamation.  The  Countess  had 
raised  her  head  and  looked  at  them. 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.  Then  Will  turned 
to  me. 


"Explain,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  cold  with 
contempt.  "Thou  brought'st  us  hither,  sir.  Explain !" 

I  had  been  trembling;  but  at  his  challenge  I  grew 
suddenly  calm  and  collected.  My  all  was  placed  upon 
this  throw. 

"Surely,  no  explanation  is  needed,"  I  said.     "The 

Countess "  I  indicated  her  by  a  slight  gesture — 

"the  Countess  has  done  me  the  honor  of  promising  to 
be  my  bride.    I  have  summoned  you  as  witnesses." 

Count  William  was  very  white.  He  uttered  a 
fierce  oath  at  my  words  and  started  towards  me. 
Will's  hand  restrained  him. 

"Peace,  friend,"  he  said,  gently,  "we  are  in  a  crowd. 
Make  no  demonstration  here."  Then  to  me,  once  more 
coldly,  "When  was  all  this  arranged?" 

"A  month  ago,"  I  answered,  airily,  "a  month  ago 
we  agreed  to  go  to  church  to-day,"  and  I  drew  out 
from  my  bosom  the  raven  lock  of  hair  tied  with  the 
crimson  love-knot. 

"Let  me  go,"  said  the  Count,  fiercely,  struggling 
beneath  Will's  restraining  hand  and  turning  blazing 
eyes  on  me  as  he  saw  the  trifle  in  my  hand.  "Let  me 
choke  the  lie  in  his  throat,  the  accursed,  soft-spoken 
traitor!" 

224 


"Nay,"  cried  the  Countess,  wrenching  herself  free 
from  me  and  standing  erect.  "Nay,  thou  shall  not 
blame  him.  I  loved  him  at  first  sight.  I  made  him 
woo  me.  Thou  shalt  not  punish  him,  thou  shall  not!" 

There  was  something  noble  in  her  supreme  self- 
surrender.  Again  I  felt  a  pang  of  pity  for  her.  Will 
glanced  around  him  at  the  gathering  crowd.  It  struck 
me  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  curiously  calm. 

"Let  us  go  to  a  more  retired  place/'  he  said  to 
the  Count. 

"No,"  replied  the  latter,  furiously.  "I  will  punish 
him  here  and  now  for  his  insolence  and  treachery." 

I  put  my  arm  around  the  Countess. 

"You  refuse  to  act  as  witnesses,  then?"  I  said,  and 
smiled  at  her  tenderly.  At  the  look,  the  caress,  Count 
William's  self-control  gave  way.  He  flung  off  Will's 
hand  as  if  it  were  a  feather  and  whipped  out  his  rapier. 

"Thy  sword,"  he  gasped.  'Thy  sword,  fellow! 
Ah,  thou  hast  none! — Thine,  friend,  prythee,"  cour- 
teously, to  one  of  the  bystanders.  It  was  proffered 
him  instantly.  He  drew  it  out  of  its  sheath  with  a 
lightning  flash  of  steel  and  struck  the  Countess's  love- 
token  from  out  my  hand.  "Here,  thou  low-born  milk- 
sop!" he  cried,  tendering  the  borrowed  weapon  to  me, 

225 


"I  will  soil  my  hands  by  killing  thee,  and  so  leave  in 
the  world  one  whining  Judas  less." 

I  turned  white.  Here  was  a  development  of  which 
I  had  not  dreamed.  I  had  a  true  woman's  horror  of 
swords,  and  knew  naught  about  fencing.  Sooth,  I 
would  die  bravely,  gladly,  but  not  in  this  fashion.  I 
looked  about  me  desperately  for  means  of  escape. 

The  Count  saw  my  shudder  and  my  pallor,  and 
laughed  derisively. 

"A  brave  lover!"  he  said.  "The  mere  look  of  a 
sword  makes  him  chalk-white.  See  how  he  dangles  it 
in  his  hand.  What!  must  I  kill  thee  without  the  pre- 
tense of  a  duel?  So  be  it,  then!"  He  lifted  his  rapier. 

"End  it  quickly,  Count.  The  crowd  grows,"  said 
Will,  glancing  about  him. 

The  Countess  uttered  a  piercing  scream  and  held 
out  her  hands  beseechingly  to  the  crowd  that  now 
hemmed  us  in,  calling  for  help.  The  sympathy  of  the 
people  was  against  us,  however,  for  the  cause  of  the 
quarrel  had  been  whispered  from  one  to  another. 

"Not  even  thy  tears  shall  save  him,  Countess," 
cried  Count  William,  furiously.  "Come,  fellow,  lift  thy 
point.  Thou  hast  played  with  two  hearts,  madam;  'tis 
fitting  that  thine  own  should  break." 

226 


I  lifted  the  weapon  I  held  in  gingerly  fashion,  and 
the  crowd  roared  with  laughter.  The  Countess  sobbed. 
Will  looked  at  me  with  a  smile  of  contempt.  A  mist 
rose  before  my  eyes. 

The  Count  lunged  at  me  furiously.  His  point 
barely  missed  my  heart.  With  the  narrow  escape  such 
courage  as  I  had  suddenly  deserted  me.  I  forgot  my 
disguise,  remembered  nothing  save  the  present.  I  was 
all  woman  again.  I  began  to  sob,  and.  dropping  the 
sword,  ran  forward  and  fell  at  Will's  feet,  embracing 
his  knees  in  an  agony  of  terror. 

"O  Will,"  I  cried,  "Will,  save  me !  O  Will,  be  not 
so  cruel  to  me!" 

There  was  another  great  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  crowd,  echoed  derisively  by  the  Count.  But  Will 
did  not  share  in  their  mirth.  He  looked  down  at  me, 
amazement  and  contempt  struggling  for  the  mastery 
in  his  expression.  Then  suddenly  his  countenance 
changed.  He  bent  towards  me  and  gazed  searchingly 
into  my  eyes.  Then  recognition  flashed  into  his  face. 
He  lifted  me  suddenly,  drew  me  to  his  heart  and  laid 
my  tear-stained  countenance  upon  his  breast. 

"Nan,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear,  "Nan,  dear  Nan, 
my  sweetheart  and  my  wife!" 


Ihaprer I  IXVII; 


An  instant  thus  we 
stood.  Then  Count  Wil- 
liam's voice  broke  the  spell 
that  bound  us. 

"What  means  this?" 
he  said.  "Thy  kindliness 
of  heart,  Will,  hath  made 
thee  strangely  forgetful  of 

friendship's  ties.    Release  the  lad  and  let  me  conclude 
his  punishment." 

"The  watch!"  cried  a  boy's  shrill  voice  suddenly 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  "The  watch  ap- 
proaches." 

The  Count  stood  his  ground ;  not  so  the  idle  rabble 
that  surrounded  us.  They  gave  cries  of  alarm  in 
various  keys,  and  melted  away  like  dew  before  the  sun. 
The  man  who  had  lent  the  sword  to  me  left  it  where 
it  lay,  and  fled.  Count  William  sheathed  his,  and 
folded  his  arms.  When  at  length  the  officers  of  the 
law  did  approach,  puffy  and  important,  he  bestowed 
a  gold-piece  or  two  upon  them,  which  instantly  ren- 
dered them  blind  and  obsequious.  At  their  departure 
he  turned  to  me  again. 

I  had  raised  my  head,  but  still  stood  with  Will's 
231 


Elfhake  sPcareFl 


arm  encircling  me  in  protecting  fashion.  The  Coun- 
tess had  sunk  down  on  the  church  steps,  and  sat  there 
pale  and  erect,  awaiting  the  outcome  of  the  scene. 

"Now  'tis  quiet  enough  in  all  conscience,  and  the 
watch  will  not  trouble  us  again.  Pick  up  thy  sword, 
Cesario." 

"Nay,"  interposed  Will,  releasing  me,  and  himself 
taking  up  the  weapon.  "Nay,  Will,  if  thou'rt  bent  on 
fighting,  thou  must  e'en  fight  me." 

The  Count  stared  at  him  in  utter  amazement. 
The  Countess  rose  from  where  she  sat  and  came  for- 
ward. 

"And  why?"  the  former  demanded  at  last,  recover- 
ing his  voice. 

Will  put  his  arm  around  me  again.  "Because,"  he 
answered,  "because  —  I  know  not  how  nor  why,  but  a 
miracle  hath  been  wrought.  An  instant  since,  Cesario, 
my  page,  stood  here.  Now  'tis  Anne  Shakespeare,  my 
dear  and  honored  wife." 

I  gave  a  cry  and  again  hid  my  glowing  face  upon 
his  shoulder. 

The  Count  was  silent  from  sheer  amazement,  but 
I  felt  his  eyes  upon  me.  The  Countess  gave  a  curious 
cry,  whether  of  pain,  of  surprise,  of  disappointment,  it 

232 


•on~f  tefjfmfll  (Thou— musr 


would  be  difficult  to  say.  I  raised  my  head  again  and 
looked  at  her.  She  was  staring  at  me,  her  eyes  large, 
her  face  pale. 

"A  woman!"  she  muttered,  as  if  to  herself.  "A 
woman!" 

Then  she  paused,  and  her  expression  became  in- 
scrutable and  mocking  as  of  old.  She  gave  a  hard 
little  laugh. 

"I  have  been  the  heroine  of  a  pretty  comedy,  it 
seems,"  she  said,  her  eyes  still  full  upon  me  and  her 
face  ablaze  with  anger.  Then  suddenly  her  expression 
softened  and  grew  curiously  wistful. 

"  'Tis  a  Paradise  I  cannot  share,"  she  said,  slowly; 
and  she  meant  our  love,  methinks.  "I  might  have 
known  it.  Only  the  innocent  can  enter  those  white 
gates.  I  dreamed  that  I  might — but  I  was  wrong. 
The  truest  love  of  my  poor  sinful  soul  has  been  given 
to  a  shadow." 

She  came  towards  us.  and  gave  her  hand  to  Will 
to  kiss.  He  bent  over  it  obediently.  Then  suddenly 
she  leaned  forward,  and  once  again,  for  the  last  time, 
her  lips  touched  mine. 

"Farewell,  my  shadow  love,"  she  said,  smiling 
sombrely,  "and  farewell,  Mistress  Shakespeare.  Love 

333 


and  loyalty  are  not  altogether  dreams,  though  I  have 
sometimes  thought  them  so.  Your  secret  is  safe — 
Cesario!" 

Her  face  was  convulsed  with  grief  for  an  instant 
as  she  looked  at  me.  It  was  as  if  she  gazed  on  the 
corpse  of  one  beloved.  And  so,  indeed,  she  did.  Then, 
composing  herself,  she  bowed  slightly  to  each  of  us 
and  went  down  the  street  alone.  We  stood  watching 
her  until  the  last  glimmer  of  her  scarlet  robe  had  dis- 
appeared. Then  Count  William  broke  into  a  cry. 

"Ah,  Will,  I  love  her,  love  her  still!  What  shall  I 
do  to  make  her  mine?" 

Will  shook  his  head  and  laid  his  hand,  with  a 
caressing  gesture,  upon  the  Count's  shoulder. 

"Patience,  Will,  patience !  She  is  broken  now  over 
the  shattering  of  her  dream;  but  that  she  could  love 
even  a  shadow  so  sincerely  shows  that  her  heart  is 
noble,  as  I  have  deemed  it  ever.  Surely,  thy  long  de- 
votion will  touch  her  at  last.  Wait  and  love " 

"As  thy  lady  here  hath  done,"  said  the  Count, 
courteously  interrupting.  He  knelt  before  me.  "Mis- 
tress Shakespeare,  I  know  not  how  nor  why  thou 
wearest  this  disguise,  but  thy  secret  is  safe  with  me 
also.  I  hope  thou  wilt  forgive  my  hasty  rudeness  a 


while  since.  Prythee  remember  I  labored  under  a  mis- 
take." 

I  gave  him  my  hand,  and  smiled  in  token  of  for- 
giveness. He  pressed  his  lips  upon  it  and  then  rose. 

"Farewell,  Will,"  he  said,  drawing  his  cloak  about 

him,  "farewell  until  noon Ah,  where  now  will  be 

thy  performance  at  the  palace?" 

Will's  face  fell,  and  he  looked  at  me  in  comical 
perplexity. 

"Nay,"  I  said,  readily,  although  I  blushed;  "why 
need  any  change  be  made?  None  knows  who  I  am 
save  you  two  and  the  Countess,  and  none  need  be  told. 
Let  the  play  go  on." 

Will  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  but  his  face  cleared 
in  spite  of  him^lf- 

"The  lady  is  wise,"  said  Count  William.  "Let  it 
be  as  she  says,  Will.  Thou  canst  get  no  other  Juliet 
at  this  late  hour,  and  the  change  would  create  com- 
ment." 

"So  be  it,  then,"  said  WilL  "  Thou'st  played  thy 
part  so  well,  Nan,  that  'twill  do  no  harm  to  play  it  a 
little  longer.  Then  to  Stratford,  and  an  end  to  mys- 
teries," 

Again   applauding   his   decision,   Count   William 


bowed  and  left  us.  We  watched  him,  also,  out  of  sight, 
his  golden  hair  and  gleaming  blue  satin  shining  in  the 
sun.  Then  Will  turned  to  me. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  said,  and  his  tone  was  as  love- 
filled  as  of  old;  "sweetheart,  what  means  it  all?  I  am 
bewildered.  Prythee  enlighten  my  darkness." 

We  began  to  walk  down  the  street  together. 

"It  grows  near  noon,"  I  answered,  "and  we  shall 
not  have  time  for  many  words  now ;  but  ere  I  enlighten 
thy  darkness  thou  must  let  the  sun  rise  on  mine." 

And  then,  as  we  went  slowly  towards  the  boat 
landing,  I  told  him  all  that  had  happened  in  those 
dreary  months  since  we  parted.  I  began  with  the  con- 
versation I  had  overheard  beside  the  willows.  Then 
followed  the  story  of  my  madness,  at  which  he  groaned, 
and  murmured  words  of  love  and  commiseration. 
Finally  I  narrated  how  and  why  I  had  come  to  London. 
Then  I  paused  an  instant  and  looked  at  him. 

"Will,"  I  said,  and  my  voice  trembled,  betraying 
the  anguish  that  had  tormented  me  so  long,  "thou 
seem'st  thy  old,  dear  self  to  me,  and  yet — didst  thou — 
didst  thou  ever  love  her?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  so  amazed  an  expression 
that  my  question  was  answered  before  he  spoke. 

336 


"Never,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  as  wondering 
as  his  face ;  then,  in  a  pained  way,  "Nan,  hadst  no  faith 
in  my  truth  and  honor?" 

"Forgive  me,"  I  murmured,  with  instant  repen- 
tance; "forgive  me;  and  yet " 

"Yet — perhaps  thou  wert  justified.  She  thought, 
too,  that  I  loved  her  for  a  while,"  he  went  on,  half  to 
himself.  "So  did  Count  William  at  one  time. 

"A  woman's  face,  with  nature's  own  hand  painted, 

Hast  thou,  the  master  mistress  of  my  passions ; 
A  woman's  gentle  heart,  but  not  acquainted 

With  shifting  change,  as  is  false  woman's  fashion. 
An  eye  more  bright  than  theirs,  less  false  in  rolling, 

Gilding  the  object  whereupon  it  gazeth ; 
A  man  in  hue,  all  hues  in  his  controlling, 

Which  steals  men's  eyes,  and  women's  souls  amazeth." 

He  paused  and  turned  to  me,  his  face  illumined. 
"  'Twas  of  Count  William  I  wrote  thus,  Nan,"  he  said. 
"Is't  not  true  ?  Hath  he  not  a  woman's  face  in  beauty, 
and  a  woman's  gentle  heart?  Ah,  loyal,  loving  friend! 
Deem  not,  however,  dearest,  that  I  thought  of  thee 
when  I  spoke  of  false  women.  Nay,  'tis  the  majority 
I  mean ;  and  Nan — Nan,  thou  hast  been  a  lad  in  London 
long  enough  to  know  that  of  most  women  it  is  sooth." 

237 


"But  the  Countess — what  of  her?"  I  said,  with 
diffidence. 

"The  Countess?  Ah!"  he  said,  with  the  same 
strange,  speculative  look  he  had  worn  before  when 
speaking  of  her. 

"How  sweet  and  lovely  dost  thou  make  the  shame 

Which,  like  a  canker  in  a  favorite  rose, 
Doth  spot  the  beauty  of  thy  budding  name. 
O,  in  what  sweets  dost  thou  thy  sins  enclose !" 

He  paused  again,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  curious 
expression. 

"Dost  understand?"  he  said. 

I  did  as  in  a  lightning  flash.  Many  things  I  had 
not  comprehended  were  now  made  clear.  I  remem- 
bered the  Countess's  singular  freedom  of  dress  and 
manner;  and  how  she  had  come  alone,  at  nightfall,  to 
Will's  lodgings.  I  recalled  the  tragic  despair  with 
which  she  had  spoken  of  her  "poor  sinful  soul"  a  short 
space  since.  Not  of  ordinary  human  frailty  are  such 
tones  used.  I  looked  at  Will  in  sudden,  wide-eyed 
comprehension. 

"Yet,"  I  began,  doubtfully,  "she  lives  in  a  right 

stately  house — she's  called  the  Countess " 

238 


"And  'tis  no  nickname,"  interrupted  Will,  "and  'tis 
in  the  halls  of  her  ancestors  that  she  dwells.  Sorrow 
and  anguish  she  hath  brought  to  her  proud  house,  and 
yet — and  yet — despite  all,  she  hath  a  noble  heart.  She 
gave  it  freely  to  thee  in  thy  disguise,  and  some  day, 
perhaps,  Count  William " 

He  fell  into  a  thoughtful  silence,  looking  into 
space  with  the  calm,  large  gaze  that  saw  broader  and 
deeper  than  other  men.  But  I  could  not  forbear  in- 
terrupting his  revery.  Although  my  doubts  as  to  his 
loyalty  were  laid  at  rest,  my  curiosity  was  not  yet  sat- 
isfied. 

"But  Will,"  I  said,  "Will,  thou  didst  long  so  for 
her  miniature;  thou  didst  bid  me  keep  it  safely; — oh, 
and  she  deemed  that  thou  didst  love  her — and  Count 
William,  that  day  by  the  Globe,  when  thou  first  didst 
send  me  to  her " 

He  laughed,  and  patted  me  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

"What,  sweeting,  still  wondering?  Listen,  then, 
and  learn  all  the  heart  of  thy  true  lover  in  a  few  words 
as  brief  as  may  be.  Count  William  was  kind  to  me 
when  I  first  came  to  London.  Among  other  things, 
as  our  friendship  grew,  he  confided  to  me  his  passion 
for  the  Countess.  I  visited  her  with  him.  For  a  time 


e  sPcareTH 


I  think  her  fancy  was  taken  by  me,  and  so  thought 
Count  William.  While  he  labored  under  this  delusion 
he  was  nobly  willing  to  leave  the  field  to  me.  He 
begged,  however,  that  he  might  have  the  miniature 
which  she  had  lightly  offered  to  me  as  a  keepsake  one 
day.  'Twas  this  conversation  thou  didst  overhear  be- 
tween us.  After  thou  hadst  left  us,  then  I  told  him, 
in  confidence,  of  my  marriage,  and  my  undying  love 
for  thee.  Since  that  day  he  has  known  that  my  heart 
was  never  hers,  nor  ever  would  be.  That  night,  when 
she  came  to  my  lodgings,  'twas  to  seek  thee,  as  I  know 
now.  Then  I  could  not  understand  her  appearance,  but 
seized  the  opportunity  to  plead  Count  William's  cause. 
I  did  not  know  then  why  my  words  were  so  unavail- 
ing. 'Twas  because  Cesario  filled  her  heart  and  mind. 
And  now  —  poor,  noble,  misguided  soul  —  what  will  be 
the  end?" 

Again  he  sank  into  thought,  but  again  I  was  not 
quite  satisfied. 

"But  Will,"  I  said,  timidly,  "thou  didst  visit  her  — 
thou  didst  write  poetry  about  her  —  Count  William  and 
she  both  thought  -  " 

He  turned  to  me  with  a  swift,  indignant  gesture. 

"Nan,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  quiet  reproach,  "Nan, 
240 


have  I  deserved  this?  Nay "  as  I  instantly  craved 

his  pardon — "let  us  make  an  end,  for  our  comrades 
wait,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  thou  must  be  Cesario 
again,  and  Romeus  and  Juliet  must  fill  all  our  thoughts. 
Ever  in  body  and  soul  have  I  been  loyal  to  thee, 
Nan.  Never  hath  a  day  passed  since  our  parting  that 
thy  image  hath  not  been  in  my  heart,  and  thy  long, 
mysterious  silence  has  caused  me  bitter  grief.  Yet, 
for  thy  own  sake,  I  could  not  leave  London,  Thou 
hast  seen  how  I  am  bound  by  the  theatre,  and  lately 
by  my  illness.  As  for  the  Countess — my  name  has, 
indeed,  been  coupled  with  hers,  for  I  frequently  accom- 
panied Count  William  on  his  visits  to  her.  Never  hath 
it  been  so  associated  with  just  reason,  though,  I  swear. 
I  have  sought  to  further  his  cause.  The  poetry  I  have 
just  now  said  to  thee  was  written  for  that  purpose. 
All  the  interviews,  few  in  number,  I  have  ever  had 
with  the  Countess  alone  have  been  towards  the  same 
end.  There  is  another  reason — ay,  I  freely  admit  it." 

His  face  lit  with  mysterious  fire,  as  I  had  seen  it 
oft  at  Stratford  when  he  told  me  of  his  dreams. 

"That  reason  I  may  tell  to  thee  alone,  Nan,"  he 
went  on,  slowly.  "None  other  would  understand.  I 
am  a  poet,  Nan.  All  nature  is  the  book  I  read,  and 

941 


Eltoake  SPC  are>1 


all  mankind.  Naught  is  too  high,  naught  too  low  for 
me  to  find  of  interest  and  of  value.  Each  man  and 
woman,  every  tree  and  flower,  all  words  and  gestures 
that  I  see  and  hear  are  preserved  in  the  world  that 
lives  within  my  heart  and  soul.  There  are  many  figures 
in  it,  Nan,  and  many  scenes.  Some  of  our  Stratford 
walks  and  talks  dwell  there,  and  London  haunts  of 
vice  and  sorrow.  Our  love  story  and  Count  William's 
are  constantly  re-lived  in  that  world  within.  Jack  Fal- 
staff  ,  humorist  and  traitor,  exists  in  my  dream  universe, 
and  the  Countess,  mocking  and  inscrutable  ;  and  I  think 
of  all  these,  and  many  others;  and  live  with  them,  and 
strive  to  enter  into  their  minds  and  souls  ;  and  then  -  " 

His  tone,  which  had  been  exalted  and  mysterious, 
broke  off  with  a  little  laugh.  He  ended  in  matter-of- 
fact  fashion. 

"And  some  day,  I  hope,  in  one  way  or  another, 
this  dream-world  shall  materialize  into  comforts  for 
thee  and  the  babe,  sweetheart;  and  that  Will  Shake- 
speare shall  become  a  respectable  Stratford  citizen." 

I  leaned  against  him  in  perfect  content.  We  had 
reached  the  boat-landing  now,  and  the  little  craft  he 
had  signalled  to  take  us  to  the  theatre  was  coming 
rapidly  towards  us. 

243 


"And  so,"  he  ended,  "the  Countess  is  not  the  one 
woman  in  the  world  for  me,  as  thou  art,  beloved,  but 
she  is  one  of  many,  whom  it  is  alike  my  pleasure  and 
my  business  to  study  and  to  admire.  Art  satisfied 
now,  sweetheart,  sweetheart?  Ah,  I  love  thee  better 
for  thy  jealousy.  Thou  wert  less  a  woman  without  it; 
but  it  was  groundless,  dear.  Listen ;  among  the  poems 
I  have  written  for  Count  William  and  his  wooing,  now 
and  again  I  have  slipped  interludes,  which  are  for  thee 
and  me.  Canst  guess  of  whom  this  speaks?" 

The  river  lay  fair  and  sparkling  in  the  noon  sun- 
light. I  stood  gazing  at  it  dreamily,  recalling  how,  a 
few  hours  since,  I  had  thought  to  seek  its  waters  to 
still  the  anguish  of  my  heart  forever.  Ah !  what  a  con- 
trast was  the  happy  present,  while  the  voice  dearest  to 
me  in  all  the  world  murmured  in  my  ear  the  last  con- 
clusive witness  of  his  loyalty  and  love: 

"From  you  I  have  been  absent  in  the  spring, 

When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything, 

That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

243 


Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew. 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and  you  away ; 

As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did  play." 


haprcr I  (XVIII 


We  were  late  at  the 
theatre,  and  with  a  laugh- 
ing jest  regarding  our  de- 
linquency we  jumped  from  the  boat  and  rushed  rapidly 
up  the  path  to  the  doorway.  The  outside  of  the  Globe 
was  deserted,  but  as  we  reached  the  entrance  we  heard 
angry  voices  wrangling  within.  Two  of  them  struck 
upon  my  ear  with  strange  familiarity.  As  we  entered, 
both  of  us  stopped  short  and  I  gave  an  exclamation  of 
surprise. 

There  before  our  eyes  stood  the  couple  who  had 
disappeared  so  entirely  from  the  face  of  the  earth  dur- 
ing the  last  few  months — Robin  Greene  and  Jack  Fal- 
staff. 

The  former,  always  slender,  was  emaciated  now, 
and  his  petulant  young  face  was  drawn  and  haggard. 
Methought  it  wore,  also,  a  certain  look  of  shame.  Jack 
Falstaff,  however,  was  as  mountainous  and  self-pos- 
sessed, as  urbane  and  calm,  as  ever. 

247 


The  other  actors  were  crowded  around  them,  ex- 
citedly striving  to  eject  them  from  the  theatre.  With 
Robin  Greene  this  was  possible;  but  Jack  Falstaff's 
bulk  made  his  forcible  removal  a  giant's  task.  More- 
over, the  gentle  reproaches,  the  calm  self-assurance 
with  which  he  met  their  threats  and  protests,  made 
them  laugh  as  of  old,  despite  themselves. 

"Ah,  here  is  my  dear  friend  Will!"  cried  the  stout 
sinner  as  he  saw  us.  "Now  all  will  be  well  with  us. 
Congratulations,  Will.  I  heard  that  thou  wert  to  have 
thy  play  performed  at  the  palace,  and  I,  being  of  noble 
birth  by  rights,  as  thou  knowest,  came  to  assist  thee. 
Robin  and  I  have  been  wandering  in  France  and  have 
just  returned."  He  gazed,  smiling  and  complacent, 
full  into  Will's  face,  but  he  met  there  no  response. 
Those  hazel  eyes,  always  so  ready  to  twinkle  at  his 
folly,  were  calm  with  quiet  scorn.  The  countenance, 
usually  so  mobile,  was  coldly  expressionless.  The 
actors  surrounding  us  fell  into  a  strained  silence,  await- 
ing an  unexpected  development. 

For  a  moment  the  two  gazed  at  each  other.  Then 
Will  spoke. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  old  man.  Get  you  hence. 
Those  white  hairs  ill  become  a  fool  and  jester." 

348 


The  few  icy  words  were  as  pitiless  as  deserved. 
FalstafTs  face  went  pale.  He  glanced  around  him  for 
sympathy,  but  met  none.  Then,  what  attempted  force 
had  failed  to  do,  Will's  scorn  accomplished.  Slowly, 
without  a  word,  he  crept  to  the  door  and  left  the  the- 
atre. What  became  of  him  I  know  not.  He  was  not 
seen  in  London  again. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence  after  his  exit.  Then 
Robin  Greene  moved  to  follow  him;  but  ere  he  had 
reached  the  door  Will  called  to  him. 

"Come  hither,  Robin." 

He  turned,  his  thin  face  flushing  with  surprise. 
Will's  voice  was  gentle. 

"There  is  no  place  here  for  traitors;  but  thy 
enmity  was  open.  Dost  wish  to  be  friends  again?" 

The  lad  was  very  young,  and  very  feeble  now, 
from  hardships  and  hunger.  The  few  kind,  unexpected 
words  unstrung  him  utterly.  He  cast  himself  at  Will's 
feet  and  clung  to  his  hand,  weeping  like  a  child.  The 
other  actors  moved  away,  myself  included,  but  we 
could  hear  Will's  deep  voice. 

"There,  cheer  thee,  lad,  all  is  forgiven.  What!  I 
know  that  thy  jealousy  and  anger  drove  thee  mad,  and 
that  Jack  Falstaff " 


"He  said  he  hated  thee  in  his  heart,"  sobbed 
Robin,  "and  between  us  we  made  Marlowe  drunk,  and 
oh,  Will,  we  might  have  killed  thee;"  and  he  fell  to 
kissing  the  kindly  hand  to  which  he  clung. 

"But  ye  did  not — and  to-day  we  play  at  the  palace. 
Come,  lad,  cheer  thee  and  be  one  of  us  again." 

And  so,  coaxing,  consoling,  he  at  last  brought 
Robin  Greene  over  to  the  rest  of  the  players,  red-eyed 
and  ashamed,  and  ordered  one  of  the  minor  actors  to 
take  him  off  to  dinner  and  meet  us  later  at  the  palace. 

And  then,  with  all  his  heart,  he  threw  himself  into 
the  work  of  getting  our  costumes  and  properties  in 
shape  for  temporary  removal.  I  walked  in  a  kind  of 
happy  dream,  and  the  other  actors  seemed  in  tune  with 
my  mood.  All  were  in  high  glee  at  the  honor  bestowed 
upon  Will  and  upon  the  company,  and  I  was  as  joyous 
as  the  rest  for  that  reason  and  another.  Finally,  with 
jests  and  laughter,  we  left  the  theatre,  and  with  neither 
mishap  nor  adventure  reached  the  palace  in  good  time. 

All  London  knew  that,  after  the  Queen  had  eaten 
her  Michaelmas  goose,  the  players  were  to  entertain 
her,  and  a  large  crowd  had  assembled  in  front  of  the 
palace  to  welcome  us.  They  shouted  good-natured 
jests  at  us,  and  the  players  returned  their  compliments 


with  interest.  In  the  palace,  too,  as  we  passed  through 
the  various  halls  and  apartments,  we  caused  much  ex- 
citement and  delight,  although  in  gentler  wise.  Once 
or  twice  I  recognized  a  nobleman  whom  I  had  seen  at 
the  Globe.  The  ladies'  faces  were  all  strange  to  me; 
for  no  woman  who  valued  her  good  name  attended 
the  theatre.  At  last  we  entered  the  long  hall  in  which 
the  play  was  to  be  given.  Platform  and  curtains  were 
already  there,  and  it  was  deserted,  by  the  Queen's  or- 
ders, that  we  might  make  our  preparations  in  peace. 
Finally,  after  a  busy  half-hour,  all  arrangements  were 
completed,  and  word  was  sent  to  her  Majesty  that  her 
poor  players  stood  ready  to  do  her  bidding. 

Then,  indeed,  for  the  first  time  I  felt  an  instant's 
panic.  Was  I  truly  to  look  upon  her  glorious  face,  that 
Queen  of  whom  poets  sung,  before  whom  sages  trem- 
bled, at  whose  feet  all  men  bowed  in  homage?  Then, 
suddenly,  my  agitation  was  stilled  as  quickly  as  it  had 
arisen.  Will's  comforting  hand  clasped  mine. 

"Courage,  Cesario!"  he  exclaimed,  aloud.  "Thou 
hast  less  cause  for  fear  than  any  of  us,  thou'st  played 
thy  part  so  well!" 

His  bright,  tender  smile,  the  double  meaning  in 
his  words,  his  furtive  caress,  calmed  me  and  gave  me 

a5i 


confidence  again.    For  his  sake  I  could  command  my- 
self.   I  smiled  at  him  and  lifted  my  head. 

My  courage  had  returned  just  in  time.  We  heard 
voices  without,  heralding  the  approach  of  the  Queen. 
An  instant  later  the  heavy  doors  were  flung  wide,  and 
through  them  swept  a  glittering  throng  of  courtiers. 
The  players  peeped  through  the  curtains  and  beheld 
the  gay  multitude  take  their  places.  The  costumes  of 
both  men  and  women  were  gorgeous,  the  jewels  mag- 
nificent. So  noble  an  array  of  handsome  men  and 
beauteous  women  I  had  never  seen  before,  nor  ever 
would  again.  Will,  standing  by  my  side,  named  some 
of  them  to  me  in  a  whisper.  Yonder  was  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  England's  ideal.  There  was  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  gentleman,  adventurer,  and  friend  of  Edmund 
Spenser,  the  poet,  now  in  Ireland.  Beside  him  stood 
the  Earl  of  Essex,  fiery  and  impetuous,  whom  rumor 
said  the  Queen  loved  well.  There  was  Leicester,  too, 
another  who  sought  her  smiles,  and  Burleigh,  pompous 
and  self-contained.  That  slender  lad  was  young  Fran- 
cis Bacon.  He  scorned  plays  and  players,  but  came 
hither  from  policy  because  her  Majesty  loved  them. 
That  fair  lady  was  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  Sidney's 

sister;  and  yonder 

252 


His  whispered  gossip  came  to  an  abrupt  close. 
The  courtiers,  with  one  accord,  bent  low  their  heads. 
So  did  the  players,  though  hidden  by  the  curtains. 

There  was  a  cry  of  "Long  live  the  Queen!"  Then, 
through  the  midst  of  that  glittering,  obeisant  crowd, 
she  came,  moving  slow  and  stately.  Her  rich  satin 
robe  surpassed  the  numerous  magnificent  gowns  around 
her.  Her  many  jewels  flashed  a  little  world  of  light, 
She  held  high  her  haughty,  warm-hued  head,  and 
walked  with  conscious  grace. 

So  she  came,  through  the  light  and  the  color  and 
the  homage  that  she  loved,  and  reached,  at  length,  her 
place ;  stood  there  an  instant,  then  sank  into  the  carved 
chair  that  awaited  her.  The  court  also  seated  them- 
selves about  and  behind  her.  So  she  sat,  imperious 
and  brilliant,  the  slender  woman  who  held  all  England 
in  the  strong  white  hand  that  lay  idly  on  the  chair- 
arm,  the  sovereign  and  mistress  of  many  loyal  hearts, 
Elizabeth,  our  Virgin  Queen. 

A  courtier  said  something  to  her  as  she  seated 
herself.  I  did  not  catch  his  words,  nor  the  reply,  but 
it  must  have  been  a  sharp  one,  for  he  looked  much 
discomfited.  A  page  tittered  at  his  expression,  and  her 
Majesty  rewarded  the  saucy  imp  with  a  sharp  box  on 


the  ear;  then  turned  her  bright,  piercing  eyes  on  Will, 
as  he  stepped  forward  to  speak  the  prologue. 

"Thy  name,  Master  Player,"  she  called  out  sud- 
denly, as  he  made  his  bow  at  its  conclusion  and  was 
about  to  retire. 

Will  told  her,  bending  his  knee. 

"Will  Shakespeare,"  she  repeated.  "Rise,  Will. 
'Tis  my  will  that  thou  shouldst  do  so."  She  smiled 
at  the  courtiers  around  her,  and  they  laughed  duti- 
fully. "Proceed  with  thy  play,  Will,  and  if  I  will  that 
the  play  please  me,  perchance  'twill  be  my  will  to  take 
thee  and  thy  companions  under  my  protection." 

"Ah,  your  Majesty "  began  Will,  assuming  an 

expression  of  ecstatic  delight. 

"Proceed,  Sir  Player.  The  Court  waits,"  she 
crisply  cut  him  short. 

The  combat  between  the  rival  Montagues  and 
Capulets  and  the  succeeding  scene  followed.  When  it 
ended  we  heard  sounds  of  applause,  led  by  the  Queen, 
and  the  soft,  silvery  comment  of  women's  tongues 
rising  above  the  deeper  accents  of  the  men.  That 
pretty  murmur  was  strange  to  me,  accustomed  to  the 
entirely  male  audiences  at  the  Globe,  always  as  rough 
in  their  manifestations  of  approval  as  of  disapproval. 

354 


The  play,  so  auspiciously  begun,  continued 
smoothly,  rapidly.  I  have  had  sadness  in  my  life,  but 
also  many  happy  days,  thank  God.  Methinks,  when  I 
say  so,  I  thank  Him  both  for  the  sorrow  and  the  joy. 
And  of  all  the  glad  remembrances  I  have  locked  within 
my  memory,  there  is  none  more  delightsome  than  that 
afternoon  at  the  palace,  when,  my  sex  unknown,  I 
played  a  double  part  before  the  Queen  and  the  Court. 
And  those  love  scenes  with  Will,  formerly  such  torture, 
what  delight  were  they  now!  The  later  ones  of  pain 
and  death  alone  were  not  ours.  It  seemed,  that  bright 
day,  that  they  could  never  be.  And  yet,  if  so 

"Let  love  devouring  death  do  what  he  dare, 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine." 

So  Will,  as  Romeus,  cried  with  passion,  thinking 
of  me,  I  knew,  and  in  my  heart  the  words  devoutly 
were  echoed. 

The  duel  scene  was  difficult  for  us  alL  I  was  not 
on  the  stage,  but,  standing  at  the  side,  I  saw  on  Mar- 
lowe's brow  great  drops  of  sweat,  quite  unwarranted 
by  his  exertions.  Robin  Greene,  beside  me,  for  he  had 
no  part  in  the  play,  of  course,  groaned  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Marlowe,  indeed,  fenced  so  care- 
ass 


fully  that  he  had  to  be  urged  to  put  more  spirit  into 
the  duel,  that  it  might  not  seem  a  farce. 

At  length,  however,  the  trying  scene  was  safely 
concluded,  and  there  began  the  entirely  new  part  of 
the  play,  the  scenes  which  had  never  been  given  in 
public,  owing  to  the  untimely  ending  of  that  first  per- 
formance. 

The  Queen  had  been  watching  me  with  special  in- 
tentness  from  the  beginning.  The  other  actors  noticed 
and  commented  upon  this  fact,  and  offered  me  laugh- 
ing, although  sincere,  congratulations.  Her  steady 
gaze  made  me  slightly  uncomfortable,  for  my  part  was 
no  more  important  than  Will's,  yet  she  did  not  look 
at  him  so  constantly.  When,  at  length,  Juliet  drank 
the  Friar's  potion,  I  was  alone  upon  the  stage,  and  just 
as  I  lifted  the  phial  to  my  lips  the  Queen's  intent  gaze 
met  mine  again.  I  stammered  a  little  over  my  part, 
in  sheer  embarrassment,  and  almost  dropped  the  tiny 
bottle. 

The  play  drew  near  its  close.  Juliet  lay  sleeping 
in  her  death-like  trance,  and  Romeus  came  to  take  his 
last  farewell.  In  the  corpse-like  rigidity  of  my  atti- 
tude I  could  not  see  the  audience,  but  I  felt  the  Queen's 
bright,  steady  eyes  still  upon  me.  A  few  moments 

256 


later,  while  I  searched  for  Romeus's  dagger,  I  noted 
that  her  gaze  yet  intently  followed  all  my  actions. 

Romeus  and  Juliet,  the  star-crossed  lovers,  lay  at 
rest.  The  play  was  ended.  The  curtains  were  drawn 
together.  In  the  babel  of  applause  and  conversation 
that  followed  we  heard  the  Queen's  voice  speaking 
distinctly. 

"Where  is  Will  Shakespeare?    Where  is  Romeus?" 

Obeying  the  summons,  Will  passed  out  between 
the  curtains  and  stood  before  her.  The  rest  of  us 
peeped,  and  saw  her  gazing  at  his  noble  figure  criti- 
cally. 

"A  fine  play,  Will  Shakespeare,"  she  said  at  length. 
"Thou  shall  act  others  here,  and  often,  if  they  prove 
so  good  as  this.  Where  is  thy  Juliet?" 

Will  came  back  for  me,  and  I  followed  him,  trem- 
bling. We  stood  together  before  her.  The  jewels 
sparkled  bright  upon  her  person,  but  her  eyes  outshone 
them  in  hardness  and  brilliancy.  Methought  I  should 
not  care  to  have  those  eyes  turned  on  me  in  anger. 
Yet  withal,  there  was  a  certain  graciousness  about  her, 
an  air  of  majesty  and  charm  which  made  me  dimly 
understand  at  that  moment  why  she  could  draw  such 
men  and  women  around  her.  I  knew,  now,  why  she 


had  excited  tributes  of  loyalty  and  devotion  so  pas- 
sionate from  men  whom  no  bribes  could  have  forced 
to  adulation.  She  gazed  at  us  both  an  instant  with 
that  bright,  penetrating  gaze;  then  nodded  to  a  cour- 
tier. 

"Clear  the  room,"  she  said,  imperiously. 

"Your  Majesty?"  the  nobleman  faltered,  thinking 
he  misunderstood. 

"Clear  the  room,"  she  repeated,  "of  all,  of  cour- 
tiers and  players  alike.  I  would  speak  to  Romeus  and 
Juliet  alone." 

In  a  few  moments  her  command  was  obeyed.  The 
long,  stately  apartment  was  empty  save  for  us  three. 
The  Queen  sat  there,  looking  at  me  as  she  had  done 
in  the  play.  I  trembled,  wondering  what  her  steady 
gaze  meant.  I  never  dreamed  of  the  truth.  At  length 
she  spoke. 

"What  means  this?  A  maid  disguised  as  a  man 
among  players?" 

With  a  surprised  exclamation  I  was  bathed  in 
blushes  as  in  a  flame.  I  stood  there,  my  head  droop- 
ing. Will  gave  a  low,  amused  laugh,  and  put  his  arm 
around  me. 

"We  might  have  known  it  was  impossible  to  de- 
258 


ceive  your  Majesty,"  he  said,  tactfully,  holding  me 
close  the  while.  "I  am  the  only  player  who  knows 
Juliet's  sex.  Your  Majesty's  eyes  are  keen." 

"But  why  is  this?"  the  Queen  persisted,  although 
her  face  relaxed  somewhat  at  Will's  subtle  flattery. 
"  'Tis  a  scandal,  were  it  known,  Master  Player." 

"Nay,  then,"  replied  Will,  readily;  "you  shall  have 
the  tale,  your  Majesty,  an  it  please  you  to  listen.  You 
will  find  it  another  play,  indeed." 

Then,  briefly,  softly,  eloquently,  he  narrated  our 
love-story  as  I  have  striven  to  write  it  here;  but  ah! 
how  infinitely  more  touching  and  tender  it  was  on  his 
lips!  'Twas  a  tale,  as  he  told  it,  to  melt  any  woman's 
heart. 

When  at  last  he  had  finished,  the  Queen  sat  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  a  look  of  wonder  and  admiration. 
Methought  there  were  even  tears  in  her  bright  eyes. 

"A  tale  fit  for  a  play,  indeed,"  she  said,  and  she 
sighed  a  little;  "a  tale  fit  for  a  play,  indeed." 

She  paused  a  moment.  Then  she  added,  more  im- 
pulsively than  I  yet  had  heard  her  speak: 

"I  am  glad  to  know  thee,  Master  Shakespeare,  and 
thee,  also,  madam,"  courteously  to  me.  Then,  more 
calmly,  "What  dost  intend  to  do  with  thy  sweetheart, 


Master  Shakespeare?  The  theatre  is  no  place  for  a 
woman." 

"We  return  to  Stratford  to-morrow,"  I  heard  Will 
answer,  to  my  surprise.  "I  shall  come  back  to  London 
as  speedily  as  may  be,  and  I  hope  for  a  continuance 
of  the  favor  your  Majesty  hath  shown  me  to-day." 

She  smiled  suddenly,  graciously,  and  gave  him  her 
hand  to  kiss. 

"Thou  hast  it,  sir,"  she  said,  "thou  hast  it,  e'en — 
well,  e'en  for  the  sake  of  thy  brave  sweetheart,  and 
the  tale  that  thou  hast  told  so  well.  Ay,  Will  Shake- 
speare, thou  shalt  be  under  my  patronage  henceforth, 
and  thy  fortunes  shall  be  my  care." 

She  interrupted  herself,  still  smiling: 

"Nay,"  she  said,  graciously,  "thy  fortune  is  already 
thine ;  for  this  thy  sweetheart  is  treasure  rich  enough." 

She  bent  forward,  in  stately  fashion,  and  kissed 
me  on  the  mouth. 

"There,  Mistress  Shakespeare,"  she  went  on,  "thou 
canst  say  until  thy  dying  day  that  thou  bearest  a 
Queen's  kiss  upon  thy  lips.  Go  back  to  Stratford  with 
thy  husband  and  let  thy  trust  in  him  henceforth  be 
perfect.  Such  as  he  grow  not  on  every  bush.  As  for 
thee,  Will  Shakespeare,  shame  consume  thee  if  thou 

260 


dost  ever  play  her  false!  Soothly,  methinks  ye  have 
proved  to  the  full  each  other's  love  and  truth.  Nay, 
thank  me  no  thanks.  The  play  is  well  ended.  Call  in 
the  Court,  Master  Shakespeare." 


The  next  day,  as  Will 
had    told    the    Queen,    we 

started  back  to  Stratford, 
thereby  creating  much  won- 
derment among  the  players. 

Master  Jonson  and  Master  Burbadge  urged  Will 
strongly  not  to  leave  London  just  after  his  success  at 
the  palace.  He  stood  in  his  own  light  by  so  doing, 
they  said.  But  Will  was  firm.  He  could  not  explain 
to  them  why  he  felt  so  sure  of  a  continuance  of  her 
Majesty's  favor,  nor  make  them  understand  why  he 
was  so  suddenly  seized  with  a  desire  to  visit  Strat- 
ford. Cesario,  he  said,  he  would  take  with  him,  be- 
cause the  lad  had  come  from  Stratford,  and  was  home- 
sick. It  remained  unknown  that  I  was  not  to  return 
to  London. 

Ah,  what  a  happy  journey  it  was  that  we  made 
together,  comrade-wise,  from  London  to  Stratford! 
When  I  had  come  to  the  great  city  it  had  been  spring- 
time. The  birds  had  sung  love-notes  on  every  bush 
and  tree.  The  tender  flowers  had  been  budding.  All 


things  had  told  of  youth  and  hope  and  sweetness;  and 
yet  my  heart  had  been  aged,  and  despairing,  and  bitter. 
Now  it  was  autumn,  and  the  leaves  had  begun  to  fall. 
The  birds  were  hushed.  The  landscape  spoke  of 
change,  and  sorrow,  and  death;  yet  my  spirit  sang  for 
joy  within  my  bosom.  True,  change  would  come,  and 
sorrow,  also,  and  death;  yet  what  mattered  it  when  I 
had  love  immortal? 

I  kept  my  boy's  disguise,  for  it  was  more  con- 
venient for  the  journey,  and  we  would  arrive  at  Strat- 
ford at  nightfall.  As  we  rode  together  through  the 
beautiful  autumn  land  it  was  as  if  the  past  months 
were  blotted  out.  Once  more  we  paced  through  Strat- 
ford roads  to  Charlcote,  and  talked  eagerly  of  our  love, 
of  Will's  aspirations.  And  now  we  had  also  our  child 
to  talk  about  and  long  for. 

"Think,  I  have  never  seen  her,"  Will  said;  "but 
thy  letters  made  her  live  for  me.  I  wondered  much 
that  none  had  come  while  I  was  ill,  and  had  planned 
to  go  to  Stratford  when  the  play  at  the  palace  was 
safely  over.  Suppose  I  had  not  discovered  thy  sex, 
and  that  I  had  carried  out  my  idea.  What  wouldst 
thou  have  done,  Cesario?"  His  eyes  twinkled  as  he 
used  my  assumed  name. 

266 


"I  know  not,"  I  answered,  laughing,  "but  I  would 
have  found  a  way  to  deceive  thee  still,  had  I  chosen. 
Trust  woman's  wit  for  that!  No  doubt  the  letters  thou 
hast  sent  to  Stratford  since  my  departure  are  still  un- 
opened, since  my  grandam  can  neither  read  nor  write. 
Poor  grandam!  Ah,  Will,  why  is  it?  I  am  sorry  now 
for  the  grief  and  anxiety  she  must  have  suffered;  yet 
during  all  these  months  in  London  I  have  never 
thought  of  her.  And  the  child — I  love  her  dearly ;  and 
yet,  when  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come  to  thee,  she 
seemed  as  naught,  and  I  cared  not  what  became  of 
her.  Why,  Will,  why?" 

He  shook  his  head,  his  calm  and  level  gaze  rest- 
ing upon  me,  yet  looking  also  beyond. 

"Who  knows?"  he  said.  "Who  knows?  It  was 
to  be.  Tis  all  we  understand.  And  it  was  well  that 
thou  didst  so.  Let  us  thank  God." 

A  moment  later  he  spoke  of  the  Countess. 

"She  has  left  London,"  he  said.  "She  went  while 
we  were  at  the  palace.  I  heard  it  this  morning  from 
Count  William,  who  came  to  bid  me  farewell.  He  hath 
followed  her,  and  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to 
comfort  and  to  succor  her." 

I  thought  of  her  with  pity  and  with  sorrow,  and 


breathed  a  prayer  for  her  and  for  the  Count.  Then 
I  looked  once  more  on  my  dear  love,  and  suddenly  a 
great  wave  of  remorse  rushed  over  me  for  my  past 
lack  of  faith  in  him,  so  noble  and  so  true.  I  stretched 
my  hands  towards  him  beseechingly. 

"Forgive,"  I  whispered.     "Forgive " 

He  gave  me  one  great,  tender  glance  of  love  and 
comprehension;  then  took  both  my  hands  in  his,  and 
bent  and  kissed  them  with  gentle  reverence. 
"Sweetheart!"  he  said.  "Sweetheart!" 
When  at  last  we  arrived  in  Shottery,  tired  and 
travel-stained,  we  found  a  hearty  welcome.  How  my 
babe  laughed  and  lisped  childish  words  of  joy  at  sight 
of  me,  and  smiled  at  her  father,  as  if  she  had  known 
him  all  her  life!  How  my  grandam  wept  with  delight 
to  see  us  both  together  again,  and  in  happiness!  How 
we  jested  over  my  disguise,  and  what  trouble  I  had 
to  remove  the  dye  from  my  hair,  the  stain  from  my 
face  and  hands !  At  length  it  was  agreed  that  I  should 
not  appear  in  public  for  a  few  days,  so  that  both  might 
have  time  to  wear  off.  Meanwhile  my  grandam  was 
to  announce  among  the  gossips  that  I  had  returned, 
quite  recovered,  from  the  place  whither  she  had  sent 
me  to  heal  my  wandering  wits. 

268 


we  et  he 


Ay,  that  was  a  happy  journey,  a  blessed  home- 
coming. And,  thank  God,  it  was  but  the  beginning 
of  many  happy  and  blessed  years. 

The  rest  of  oar  love-story  is  so  peaceful  and  joyous 
that  it  can  be  told  in  a  short  space.  Tis  well  that  this 
is  so;  for  I  fear  me  my  chronicle  hath  already  spread 
beyond  the  limits  that  Master  Jonson  planned. 

I  am  an  old  woman  now,  and  I  can  look  back  and 
say  that  the  bliss  that  God  hath  granted  me  hath  far 
outweighed  the  bitterness  that  He  saw  fit  also  to  send. 
My  shadowed  girlhood,  and  those  weary  months  when 
I  deemed  Will  false  to  me,  were  difficult,  indeed,  to 
bear;  but  against  them  are  set  many  happy  years  of 
srnishire,  and  prosperity,  and  loyal  love.  The  joy  that 
entered  my  life  when  Will  first  came  into  it  was  eclipsed 
for  a  time,  but  it  returned,  a  brighter  light  than  ever, 
to  shine  steadily,  beneficently,  unto  the  end. 

We  had  our  sorrows.  Will's  family  never  ap- 
proved of  me,  and  his  mother  refused  always  to  look 
upon  me  as  a  daughter.  Will  was  a  dutiful  son,  but 
after  that  night  at  Charlcote  he  was  scarce  a  loving 
one.  When  at  length  she  died,  he  attended  her  funeral 
as  an  outsider.  To  his  father  he  brought  a  renewal  of 
fortune,  as  his  fame  grew  in  London. 

269 


In  the  course  of  time  my  grandam  died,  also;  a 
woman  with  whom  life  had  dealt  hardly,  but  who  re- 
ceived, I  dare  to  hope,  some  compensation  from  my 
perfect  happiness.  Will  wept  at  her  grave,  as  he  had 
not  at  his  mother's. 

Other  children  besides  Susannah  came  to  us ;  twins, 
Hamnet  and  Judith.  Hamnet  lived  a  few  brief,  bright, 
boyish  years,  then  passed  to  the  Beyond.  He  was  such 
a  child  as  his  father  must  have  been;  and  had  he  lived, 
perhaps — perhaps — but  I  will  not  awaken  an  old  sor- 
row. In  his  innocence  he  went  home  to  God.  What 
more  dare  I  desire?  Sometimes,  during  these  latter 
days,  since  Will  has  left  me,  I  have  thought  what  joy 
it  would  be  had  I  a  son  to  lean  upon — a  son  with  his 
father's  eyes,  as  Hamnet  had.  But  God  knows  best. 
If  my  checkered  life  has  taught  me  nothing  else,  it  has 
taught  me  this.  'Tis  an  old  lesson,  but  passing  difficult 
to  learn. 

There  was  much  lamentation  when  Will  first  went 
back  to  London  without  Cesario,  and  many  inquiries 
as  to  why  and  wherefore  he  had  left  me.  Will  replied, 
with  truth,  that  Cesario  had  been  so  well  pleased  to 
reach  home  again  that  he  had  no  desire  to  return  to 
London,  and,  moreover,  that  he  was  married.  At  the 

270 


SI  ftak^s  PcareFl 


last  news  the  playct's  raised  a  great  shout  of  laughter, 
remembering  my  boyish  appearance,  and  they  sent 
their  congratulations  to  me  by  Will  when  next  he  came 
to  Stratford. 

The  Queen  kept  her  promise  and  gave  Will's  com- 
pany her  patronage.  He  became  steadily  more  pros- 
perous. I  am  glad  to  think  that  his  genius  alone  would 
have  brought  him  fame  in  time;  but  the  Queen's 
gracious  favor  made  his  pathway  smooth. 

Several  tunes  her  Majesty  summoned  him  to  a 
secret  ^"ijyf"*^  an(|  mquiied  after  my  well-being.  Once 
or  twice  die  lent  me  a  message,  royal  and  gracious. 
No  hint  of  my  diflguiae  ever  reached  either  London 
or  Stratford.  Strangely,  almost  unexpectedly,  the 
secret  was  well  kept. 

But  once  in  all  those  years  we  heard  of  the  Count 
and  Countess.  I  know  not  now  whether  they  still  live; 
or,  if  they  are  dead,  what  was  their  fate.  A  letter 
came  once  to  Will,  several  years  after  my  return  to 
Stratford;  a  letter  written  from  some  sunny,  retired 
spot  in  Italy.  It  ran  as  follows,  without  heading  or 
signature  : 

**I  am  with  her.  *Tis  enough.  She  is  changed, 
gentler  and  more  tender;  also,  alas!  more  frail.  I  fear 


me  she  is  not  long  for  the  earth.  She  bids  me  give 
you  both  her  blessing  and  farewell. 

"  'That  blessing  comes  from  wicked  lips,'  she 
added;  'but — but  the  lips  of  St.  Mary  the  Magdalen — 
were  they  not  sacred  after  they  had  touched  the  feet 
of  our  Lord?  And  I,  weak  and  sinful,  lie  in  the  dust 
before  Him.  Therefore,  perhaps,  e'en  my  benedic- 
tion  '  and  with  that  she  sighed,  and  would  say  no 

more. 

"We  are  not  wedded.  She  would  not  have  it  so. 
As  a  brother  am  I  to  her,  ministering  to  her  wants. 
I  come  to  see  her  each  day,  and  each  day  she  seems 
nearer  death.  Thou,  Will,  who  seest  not  as  other  men, 
and  thy  sweetheart  wife,  who  is  above  all  women,  save 
one,  in  my  thought — you  will  understand  that  there  is 
no  sin  in  our  relations  now,  nor  ever  was  between  us 
two.  Pray  for  us,  and  farewell." 

So  abruptly  the  letter  ended,  and  we  never  received 
another.  When  those  two,  one  scarlet-robed  and 
crowned  with  dusky  tresses,  the  other  golden-haired 
and  clad  in  blue  the  color  of  the  sky — when  they 
passed  from  our  sight  that  day  before  Paul's,  they  also 
went  out  of  our  lives  forever. 

As  the  years  went  on  and  Will's  prosperity  grew, 
272 


however,  I  again  saw  other  faces  which  had  grown 

dear  to  me  in  London.  Will  bought  New  Place  and 
established  his  family  therein.  Thus  I  came,  an  hon- 
ored and  wealthy  matron,  into  the  town  where,  as  a 
nameless  child,  I  had  been  glanced  at  askance,  and 
served  in  menial  wise.  Mistress  Quickly  rejoiced  over 
my  rise  in  the  world,  and  fussed  over  the  children  to 
her  heart's  content.  Good,  homely  friend,  God  bless 
her! 

Many  of  Will's  comrades,  after  he  had  a  home  of 
his  own,  were  invited  to  enjoy  his  hospitality,  and  so 
I  met  again  stately  Burbadge,  and  comical  Kempe, 
kindly  Jonson,  and  reckless  Marlowe,  young  Greene 
and  all  the  rest.  Not  one  of  them,  however,  ever 
recognized  Cesario,  the  page,  in  Anne  Shakespeare, 
the  matron.  The  first  time  any  came  I  trembled  lest 
they  should  do  so;  but  my  fears  were  groundless.  Sev- 
eral years  had  passed.  My  hair  was  once  more  golden 
and  my  skin  fair.  Moreover,  none  suspected  the  truth. 
Once  or  twice  some  of  them  asked  Will  if  he  ever 
saw  Cesario,  and  he  always  replied,  solemnly,  that  he 
thought  the  lad  must  have  moved  to  another  part  of 
the  country,  since  he  had  disappeared  so  entirely;  and 
this  ended  the  matter. 


My  daughters  grew  up  and  were  wedded;  first 
Susannah,  then  Judith.  The  latter,  Will's  favorite, 
was  married  shortly  before  his  death,  and  he  took 
much  pleasure  in  arranging  the  details  of  the  cere- 
mony. She  was  a  saucy  wench,  with  yellow  hair  and 
sparkling  blue  eyes;  and  he  delighted  in  teasing  her 
and  listening  to  her  apt  replies.  Ah,  well,  both  she 
and  Sue  are  good  girls  and  made  happy  marriages. 
Their  joy  in  their  husbands  and  their  households  glad- 
dens me  whenever  I  visit  them. 

Although  I  still  live  in  the  body,  my  true  life  ended 
five  years  ago,  or,  rather,  waits  for  me  in  Paradise. 
For,  as  I  said  in  the  beginning,  it  is  five  years  since 
he  left  us  and  the  world  that  loves  and  mourns  him 
still.  His  end  was  untimely,  for  he  was  in  vigorous 
health,  apparently,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  would  live 
many  years.  One  day  he  was  laughing  and  jesting 
with  some  of  his  London  friends  as  they  supped  to- 
gether in  the  garden.  The  next  he  lay  in  mortal  ill- 
ness. 

The  disease,  whatever  it  may  have  been,  was 
speedy  in  its  course.  He  soon  sank  into  a  stupor 
whence  naught  could  rouse  him  save  my  voice.  He 
knew  me  and  responded  to  my  call  until  the  end — 

274 


which  came  all  too  rapidly,  a  few  days  after  he  was 
stricken. 

It  was  midnight  and  I  was  alone  with  him.  The 
house  was  very  still.  I  felt  that  death  was  near.  My 
eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face  in  passionate  entreaty,  my 
hand  was  clasped  in  his.  Suddenly  he  awoke,  and 
knew  me,  for  he  smiled.  Then  his  gaze  left  my  face 
and  rested  on  the  starlit  world  without. 

'Twas  a  perfect  spring  night.  The  full  moon  rode 
glorious  in  the  heavens.  The  stars  were  a  vast  multi- 
tude about  her.  The  murmur  of  the  Avon  sounded  full 
and  clear.  So  he  lay  an  instant,  drinking  in  with  his 
dying  senses  the  beauty  of  the  world  that  he  had  loved 
so  well.  Then,  quite  clearly  and  distinctly,  ere  his 
eyes  closed  for  the  last  time,  he  spoke 

"Forever!"  he  said;  and  then  again,  more  faintly, 
"Forever!  Forever!" 

But  whether  he  spoke  of  our  undying  love,  or  of 
the  immortal  beauty  of  the  world,  or  of  that  strange 
new  Life  and  Love  that  he  was  fast  approaching — 
who  shall  say? 

His  London  comrades  and  his  Stratford  friends 
came  to  the  funeral,  and  he  was  buried  with  much 
honor  in  the  chancel  of  our  little  church.  There  was 

275 


sore  weeping  and  heartfelt  grief ;  for  all  who  knew  him 
loved  him  right  well.  As  I  stood  beside  his  burial 
place  I  realized  that  all  my  heart  was  there;  and  that, 
although  my  body  might  live  on  many  years,  my  soul 
was  in  communion  with  his  eternally  henceforth  in 
the  Beyond. 

So  there,  in  the  quiet  Stratford  church  by  the  river, 
he  lies,  and  there  he  will  rest  forever.  No  rude,  un- 
hallowed hand  will  seek  to  disturb  his  helpless  dust, 
and  so  invoke  the  curse  he  has  called  down  in  his 
epitaph  on  any  who  dares  remove  his  bones  from  that 
quiet  resting-place.  As  some  saint's  relic,  that  hal- 
lowed dust  makes  Stratford  sacred;  and  many  pilgrims 
will  travel  hither  to  do  him  honor  in  the  years  to 
come. 

And  for  me — I  am  not  and  cannot  be  altogether 
desolate.  My  daughters  are  married  and  away,  but 
they  come  often  and  are  dutiful  girls.  Yet  it  is  not 
their  presence  that  keeps  me  from  loneliness.  'Tis 
rather  the  voices  of  the  wind  and  the  river,  which 
speak  of  him  constantly  to  me.  It  is  the  glory  of  the 
moon  and  the  stars  in  midnight  majesty  which  makes 
live  for  me  once  more  that  mysterious  last  hour  of  his 
upon  earth.  It  is  the  tranquil  twilight  when,  sitting 

276 


alone,  I  were  not  surprised  to  see  him  rise  from  among 
the  shadows.  Ah,  no,  I  am  not  lonely!  He  is  always 
very  near.  Loving  me  in  life,  he  could  not,  even  in 
death,  desert  me.  Such  is  my  Credo  and  my  comfort. 

My  chronicle  is  ended.  There  are  many  things 
in  it  that  will  greatly  surprise  Master  Jonson.  Per- 
haps, when  he  has  finished  it,  he  will  think  best  that  it 
be  not  published.  That  is  as  he  pleases.  It  matters 
not  to  me.  I  have  finished  the  task  he  set  me,  and 
now  I  may  rest. 

Rest  grows  very  sweet  as  life  draws  near  its  close. 
Ah,  eternal  rest,  when  wilt  thou  come  to  me?  Empty 
world,  when  shall  I  leave  thee?  Will's  last  words  have 
been  echoing  often  in  my  mind  of  late.  Oh,  hasten, 
blessed  time,  when  I  shall  have  my  heart's  desire  and 
see  his  face  again;  when  love  and  life  both  shall  be 
mine — forever ! 


Mistress  Shakespeare's 
revelation  is  a  great  sur- 
prise to  me,  as  she  antici- 
pated. None  of  us  ever 
dreamed  that  Cesario  was 
aught  else  than  he  appeared. 

We  regretted  his  untimely  departure,  and  often  said 
that  he  had  played  his  part  as  if  he  were  indeed  a 
woman.  We  meant  it  for  idle  compliment.  Behold, 
it  was  true! 

Methought  Mistress  Shakespeare's  chronicle  would 
be  a  few  brief  pages ;  and  see  its  bulk !  Verily,  women's 
ways  are  strange.  She  hath  poured  out  her  very  heart 
in  this  volume,  careless  who  shall  behold  it.  Shall  I, 
for  Will's  sake,  for  her  sake,  make  it  public? 

I  cannot,  alas!  consult  with  her  about  it,  nor  ad- 
vise alterations  and  omissions.  A  week  or  two  ago, 
shortly  after  she  had  finished  this  history,  she  died, 
quite  suddenly  and  painlessly,  Will's  name  upon  her 
lips.  She  had  had  many  trials,  yet  she  was  a  happy 
woman.  Will  Shakespeare's  wife  could  not  be  other- 
wise. I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  smile  of  perfect  joy 

281 


and  peace  that  rested  on  her  dead  face  when  her  body 
lay  prepared  for  burial. 

None  knows  of  the  existence  of  this  manuscript 
save  myself.  Shall  I  destroy  it,  or 

Soothly,  I  will  leave  it  for  time  to  decide.  The 
problem  is  too  great  for  me  to  solve.  In  the  cellar  of 
the  Mermaid  there  is  a  secret  underground  vault.  Few 
know  of  its  existence.  In  an  obscure  corner  there,  in 
an  air-tight  box,  I  will  deposit  this  chronicle.  Then, 
if  it  ever  be  discovered,  well.  If  not,  let  it  moulder  in 
obscurity.  Time  shall  decide. 

They  are  together  again.  None  can  wish  them 
greater  happiness,  not  even  I,  who  loved  them  right 
well.  Rest  peacefully,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  thou 
Star  of  Women.  The  world  will  never  know  your  like. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  I  shall  meet  ye  both  again. 
Towards  that  hope  my  spirit  yearns.  Meanwhile  the 
world  is  dark  without  you.  Until  we  meet  again,  fare- 
well, Will,  dear  comrade  and  poet;  farewell,  Anne 
Hathaway,  Shakespeare's  Sweetheart. 


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